


Shrovetide

by seinmit



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Arranged Marriage, Captain America Steve Rogers/Modern Bucky Barnes, Dual Genitalia, Fear about Miscarriage, Implied/Referenced Rape, Kidnapping, M/M, Mail Order Spouse Arrives Pregnant, Medical Experimentation, Mpreg, Non-Consensual Body Modification, Past Torture, Pining, Reported Harm to Animals, Slow Burn, Some Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-10
Updated: 2020-08-10
Packaged: 2021-03-06 03:27:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 41,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25546663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seinmit/pseuds/seinmit
Summary: Steve was good at loyalty. He was good at commitment. But he didn’t have to choose America, he just was American. He didn’t know what he would do, if someone sat him in front of the UN and said, okay, pick which country you want to be captain of. He felt like this business of picking a spouse was essentially that—staring at a room full of professional faces, inscrutable, with them listening to his words through an earpiece and translating them into entirely foreign tongues. It was impossible. Eventually, he gave up.Steve chose Bucky and Bucky chose Steve. They both had their reasons.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Comments: 26
Kudos: 225
Collections: Just Married Exchange 2020





	1. I'm in the Mood for Love

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lionessvalenti](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lionessvalenti/gifts).



> I really hope you like this, lioness! I enjoyed writing it for you. It was supposed to be a treat for last years JM, but for reasons that may be clear, I missed that deadline.
> 
> Shrovetide is the time of preparation for Lent in the Roman Catholic liturgical calendar. In Ireland, it was a very traditional day to marry. Religiously, it is a time of confession and spiritual growth, where Catholics are tasked with determining what they will sacrifice over the Lenten season and in what aspects of their life they especially need God's grace to deal with. The fic isn't at all religious, however!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _I'll have to see my broker,  
>  Find out what he can do,  
> 'Cause I'm in the market for you._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from [a song by Louis Armstrong.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_5THTGXG0sA)

Sarah Byrne was married on Shrove Tuesday, 1916, and became Sarah Byrne Rogers. Her mother helped her prepare the goose the night before the wedding day, because Sarah had never been much of a cook. She had met Joseph Rogers for the first time in the company of her little sister Eileen, who was sent to pick flowers on the same route as they walked, but it was February and nothing bloomed then.

It was two weeks before the wedding. Eileen was there to keep an eye on them, just in case they _really_ hit it off.

Sarah told Steve, her first and only child, that she remembered the smoke smell of burning peat. She remembered how Joseph smiled at her and his gentle hand on her elbow as they walked down the craggy path, mud frozen into jagged clumps. 

Sarah and Joseph loved each other, for the time they had each other. People who loved them had surveyed the options, considered their future lives, and decided. Ian Byrne knew that Joseph was a man who would let his wife have a career, and he knew his daughter wanted one. Connor Rogers knew Joseph had a taste for hair the color of straw but that a quick wit was even more important. They had chosen well, and they chose for their children, and Sarah and Joseph were happy. 

Steve thought about that a lot nowadays. 

* * *

The problem was that he didn't have anyone who loved him in the right way. He had friends and colleagues. The Avengers were brothers and sisters in arms, by now, with the battle-tested bond that only came of regularly putting your life in someone else's hands. But there was no one alive who had the paternalist desire to run Steve's life for him. No one who thought they could arrange things such that he was flourishing, and there hadn't been since his mother died.

The United States Army had plenty of paternalism, but none of the care. All these modern friends and loved ones didn't think about life in the right way. 

Even Natasha, who seemed invested in Steve's love life, kept telling him to be spontaneous. To be surprised by love, to look for it in unlikely places. He kept wanting to ask her if this is what she learned, wherever and whenever she was from, or if this is what she had picked up in her time in America. 

"When you meet someone with that spark, you'll just know," Natasha said, sipping loudly at the bottom of a Starbucks confection. "Just go with your heart." 

Steve rolled his eyes. "When was the last time you followed your heart?" 

She smiled at him, mouth wry. "It was a good decision when I did. And you've got all that heart, big guy. It'll take you the right place." 

Steve yanked back the urge to just outright ask her if she was really this modern and American. If she imagined him kissing a girl in the rain. He didn't ask, though. He knew she worked very hard to be the person she was and he didn't like to call attention to any artifice. Whenever she herself did that, it was like a knife with no handle, wounding the listener, wounding herself. 

It was Steve that was out of place, anyway. Steve was the one that hated the norms of Tindr and Bumble and OkCupid and Plenty of Fish. Every time he sat down to write his profile, he wanted to write: I want you to commit to me. I want to commit to you. That's the only choice that I want. 

Steve was good at dealing with hands already dealt to him, but he felt overwhelmed with possibility. Every new person he met felt like an entire life spiraling away from him and he was paralyzed by deciding between them. 

He was good at loyalty. He was good at commitment. But he didn't have to choose America, he just was American. He didn't know what he would do, if someone sat him in front of the UN and said, okay, pick which country you want to be captain of. He felt like this business of picking a spouse was essentially that—staring at a room full of professional faces, inscrutable, with them listening to his words through an earpiece and translating them into entirely foreign tongues. It was impossible. Eventually, he gave up. 

* * *

Sam was texting him about his date. Steve was always updated on Sam's lovelife, because Captain America apparently made for a very credible excuse to bail on a bad date. This, however, was not a bad date. 

_way smarter than me which is 100_

Steve knew what was expected of him. 

_If she’s too smart, she’s not going to have anything to do with you._

Sam texted him the Liberian flag, which had become his own private way to tell Steve to fuck off. 

_Make sure you tell her your job involves leaping off of buildings to fight supervillains._

_I’m a HERO steve._

It was true, but even better than a hero, Sam was a good guy. Sometimes Steve thought about how he had been trying to pick Sam up, that morning on the National Mall, and told himself: you have excellent taste. Maybe try again, find another guy. This time, a queer one. 

The best he could do, several dates later, when this new woman was looking more and more stable, if not necessarily a permanent part of Sam's life, was to text him: 

_does she have any friends?_

Sam replied instantly: _yeah but I bet she likes them too much to set them up with you._

Steve knew that Sam was joking and he signaled that he knew it with 🐣💺 in reply. The little blue seat was as close as Steve could find to a chair for "Chair Force" (he'd picked up on modern inter-branch mockery fast) and the adorable little chick needed no explanation. 

If Steve was serious, Sam would put him in touch with some people he could date. But Steve didn't want to date. He didn't like the idea of conditional. He didn't want to test anyone out. He wanted to choose and have that choice stick. 

So after a few attempts, he stopped asking Sam (and Natasha and Bruce) to set him up. He never asked Tony, not trusting Tony's taste, but he stopped even considering the people that Tony had his current PA send his way. 

His life was full, and there were an impossible number of Netflix originals to get through. Maybe if he couldn't have someone hand him a wife he could wait and see if one fell in his lap; that was the universe deciding for him, in a way. 

* * *

The weather had changed between Steve leaving his apartment and now. The last mission kept the Avengers away from New York for three weeks; it had been spring and now it was summer. 

The apartment was muggy when he walked in. He hadn't left the AC on, because when he had left it had been in the fifties. He loved that weather, because it meant he could leave his windows open all the time and hear the cacophony of the city around him. 

Now, though, it was the eighties and his apartment sweltered. 

He stripped out of his combat suit and left it on the floor by the door. Clang, the shield went down next to it. He walked to his kitchen in his underwear and opened the fridge. Some takeout that was far too old. Milk that was already on the edge of going bad before he had even left. 

Closed the fridge and turned the AC on. He sat on his couch, listening to the hiss of air starting to move, and regretted having missed the last couple weeks of being able to leave his windows open. He had grown spoiled, with air-conditioning. 

Steve leaned back into the soft cushions of his couch and let himself daydream. Maybe someone would be waiting for him and they'd smile when they saw him. Maybe they'd be out when he got back, because they had a life and they lived here like he did, with friends and hobbies and a job. They'd be in and out, leaving evidence of their presence on the coffee table and in his Netflix queue. But whenever he'd get home, there'd be food in the fridge. The apartment would be cool and comfortable, because it wouldn't be abandoned whenever Steve left. 

He imagined this, and he ached. 

Doing his best not to think about it, he used his phone to order groceries to be delivered the next morning, and used his phone to order takeout to be delivered in the next forty minutes, and used his phone to google "internet air conditioning," because there must be some way that he could make sure his apartment was the right temperature from his magic phone. He used his phone to turn on the wireless speakers that Tony had set up and had them play a playlist that his phone determined for him. He used his phone to text his laundry service to set up a pickup for tomorrow.

Finally, he held his phone in his hands and ran his thumb back and forth on the smooth glass. 

He took a deep breath and thought of all the things this modern world had available and googled, "agency arranged marriage new york city." 

* * *

Steve picked a very expensive agency. They sent him a questionnaire. The first couple questions were about his net worth and income, and they made him feel like shit. He filled them out quickly, telling himself that it was important that someone be able to take care of a family, and then pushed onward. 

Many of the questions felt even worse. On educational background, he checked off "completed high school," because this survey didn't even have any lower options. He hesitated a long time on "profession," unwilling to write that he was a superhero and instead put down "paramilitary," because what was the fucking difference, anyway. He wrote down his hobbies (painting, martial arts, motorcycles) and his religious background (non-practicing Catholic). He indicated that he had no preference in a partner's beliefs. 

The hardest question was the very first one about what he wanted in a partner. He hesitated a long time, undecided between man and woman, and finally decided: fuck it. He checked that he was looking for a man, feeling reckless and drunk with 2019. 

He wanted children, he said. He wanted commitment. On a scale of 1-10, he put that marriage was a 10 in importance to him. 

There was a section where they told him to explain his values. He wrote: dedication, loyalty, commitment. Studying that answer for a moment, he decided that those were pretty much synonyms, and he already answered a question about commitment. He deleted that and replaced it with honesty. He left both dedication and loyalty alone. 

In the section where had a chance to add free-form what he was looking for in a partner, he wrote: _shared life experience._

It was one week after sending it in that he got a call about making an appointment. Two days after that, and he was sitting in front of a pretty brunette, probably in her fifties, and dressed with the sharpness that Steve associated with Pepper. 

She looked a little horrified when Steve told her that in an ideal world, he'd marry the person she introduced him to within a couple weeks. 

"I'm a decisive guy," Steve said. His smile showed his teeth. 

Her eyebrow arched. "These are the type of expectations will narrow your options considerably." 

"I'm looking for another decisive guy," Steve said. 

She looked down at her notes. "With shared life experience, I see. We will not find anyone born in 1918 for you." 

"I have other life experience." 

"I'll buy a biography," she said. Her voice was so straightforward that Steve couldn't even call it dry. Pepper appeared in his mind, legs cooly crossed and red sole flashing, a glass of Cabernet Sauvignon in her hand. He could taste the tannins pucker his mouth. 

"This is what I want," he said, firm. "Isn't it your job to find me someone compatible?" 

She tapped her wine-red nails against the shiny surface of her desk exactly twice.

“It is. Our normal model is a lump sum, but you will put me on retainer and anything over 30 hours of work will be charged by the hour." 

Steve didn't care in the slightest and agreed. It felt like he couldn't get the US Government and Tony Stark to stop throwing money at him, he might as well spend it.

* * *

And then Steve went on with his life: missions, sparring, museums, paint. 

He tried not to think of the put-together woman looking through files for the perfect man for him. He didn't know what she was looking for, not exactly, but if he knew that he could have found it himself. 

Every few days he received a brief email with a dossier and a request for permission to disclose his identity. Two of those dossiers he rejected on instinct, something just feeling wrong. One he refused the instant he saw that he had a PhD, beyond intimidated by marrying someone with that much schooling, and then felt guilty about it.

Two weeks in, the put-together woman called him and asked a few more questions. Steve answered, doodling a monkey in his combat suit on the back of a napkin. 

Steve went to dinner with one candidate. His name was Henry, and he was an investment banker. He told Steve that he wanted a family and it was important to him that it happen fast. He wanted loyalty above anything else, because he didn't have time for someone who would be insecure in his life when he had so much else going on. He wanted a husband that can help instill excellence in his children, because nothing less than perfection would do. 

Steve ate his steak and tried not to be obvious about his skin crawling. He wondered if this is what he sounded like to the put-together brunette with the red nails. 

"It was nice meeting you," Steve lied. He texted Sam that he went on a date with the Wolf of Wall Street, except uglier. Sam showed up with pizza and beer—the principle of the thing, he said, and Steve always needed second dinner—and they stayed up too late watching "The Big Short." 

"No rich people," he told the put-together brunette and she sighed with exasperation on the other side of the phone. Steve felt oddly proud. 

"Who do you think can afford me, Steve?" she said. "Who do you think even considers hiring someone like me? This is a luxury service." 

"I have the money," Steve said. "I don't want someone who has money. Or—I don't know. They can't seem like a rich person." 

"You're framing this whole thing as if you aren't being picky, but Steve, I have to say, you are not an easy client." 

Steve felt his stubbornness rise in his chest. "I hired you because I'm not good at this." 

She sighed again. If she was another person, she would have hung up on him, but she politely told him she would be in touch before ending the call. 

* * *

"What does your gut say?" the put-together woman—well, by now she was Monica— said. "What type of person do you think would make the choice you are asking them to make?" 

Steve took the question seriously. 

"Military," he said. "If the military teaches you nothing else, it teaches you order and to learn happiness within constraints. And—"

He thought of the Commandos, a team crafted out of a scattered set of POW from a prison camp he busted open. 

"Military men know what it is like to go through hell with those who are around you." 

Monica made a noise of acknowledgment and he could hear her type. 

"Someone without a lot of family," Steve said. If he had a lot of family, he wouldn't need to go to strangers to make this choice for him. He could fold himself into the social fabric of his life, find someone in the usual way of fate and happenstance. "Someone—someone displaced. But it has to be someone who wants a family." 

"I think I will have to go outside my usual circles," Monica said. 

"Good," Steve said. "Absolutely no Ivy League." 

* * *

He was out of contact when Monica left the voicemail. They'd had to go off comms, because the bad guys were waiting for them and they weren't permitted on Russian soil. 

Steve didn't remember to turn on his phone until he was home, out of the shower, and eating pizza standing upright behind his front door, too lazy to take even a couple steps further into the apartment. 

He put the voicemail on speaker and wolfed down a couple more slices. 

"Steve, I think I found him," Monica said. "29, ex-military. I can't tell you much about his military career, because he couldn't tell me much about it, but I'm sure your clearance is higher than mine. Recently discharged. I hen I asked him about the idea of an arranged marriage, he told me that he kept his promises, which honestly is the thing you'd say. From Brooklyn, which I thought was a nice touch. Anyway, call me." 

Steve played the voicemail again and felt it in his gut. It was the same twisting feeling when Erskine showed him all the differnet files with all the different places where he'd tried to sign up before, when he'd called Steve's bluff. It was the conviction that he was about to be found wanting but the drive to take the jump anyway. 

He played the voicemail again and polished off the pizza. It was too late to call back, so Steve sent an email agreeing to release more information. 

* * *

James Buchanan Barnes. 

"Bucky," he said, and smiled at Steve. His teeth were white. He had long brown hair, pulled up into a low bun at the base of his neck. Not that recently discharged, then. 

"Steve," he replied. "Nice to meet you."

Bucky's smile had an edge, like there was a joke Steve missed. "Nice to meet you, too." 

They devoted a moment to looking at each other. The silence was more relaxed than could be expected. Steve figured it made sense, wanting to study each other in peace. Monica's policy restricted photographs of potential matches, so this was the first time seeing each other. And there was a lot to look at. Steve enjoyed looking at Bucky—that wasn't everything, but it was something. 

"So you want to marry me, huh?" Bucky said. His tone was sly, but in a way that nudged Steve, bringing him in on that joke Steve had seen in his smile. 

Steve went for it. He valued honesty. "Yeah, pretty much," Steve said. "I want to be married. And I figure, that's basically just a choice you make, getting married. I like you. Let's give it a shot." 

His heart pounded in his ears and he could feel Sam somewhere shudder and sit up straight, like a hunting dog. Nobody would approve of this. 

"That's nuts," Bucky said. "You know that's nuts, right?" 

"You're here," Steve said. "What does that make you?" 

"Nuts," Bucky said. He looked down and his smile slipped into something more private. Steve wanted to ask him what it meant, but it wasn't for him. "Nuts and looking for a change." 

Steve thought of his empty fridge. "What do you eat for breakfast?" Steve said. 

"Is that a come-on?" Bucky said. 

"I'm trying to imagine what my fridge will look like," Steve said. He deployed honesty as a bludgeon, sometimes. He had to know if Bucky could cope. 

Bucky's eyes narrowed. 

"And obviously I'm saving myself for our wedding night," Steve continued. 

"Obviously," Bucky said. His voice was disarmingly casual. Breezy, almost. It would be off-putting if his eyes weren't so serious. He had examined Steve the whole time with intensity that he couldn't altogether conceal under charm. Steve felt himself being evaluated. 

Monica told him it wasn't proper etiquette, given the situation, to ask if there would be another date in person. Steve couldn't help himself. 

As they stood up after Steve paid the bill, he caught Bucky's wrist before it went into the pocket of his leather jacket. "Will I see you again?" Steve asked. 

Bucky's eyes flicked to the floor in the space of a breath before returning to meet Steve's gaze squarely. His eyes were grey. A hint of green, maybe. 

"Yes," Bucky said. "If up to me." 

Steve squeezed his wrist, and let him go. 

* * *

Another dinner, a few days later. This time more expensive. This time, Steve had a ring in his pocket. Monica told outright him not to do this, but he wanted to. He had done stupider things with less reason than this. 

Bucky walked into the restaurant and looked uncertain. He touched his hand to the back of the chair and bit his lip for just a moment. Steve followed his eyes to the women at the table next to them—the one closest wore a diamond ring the size of a quail's egg. 

He pulled out the chair for himself, though, and sat. By the time he was smiling over at Steve, his discomfort diffused enough that if Steve wasn't watching so closely, he wouldn't have noticed.

"This was a terrible idea," Steve said, and Bucky flinched so hard the glass of water in his hand sloshed. Steve reached out reflexively and pressed his palm to Bucky's shoulder. 

"I'm an idiot, sorry, not you—this restaurant. I don't know what the fuck I'm doing here." 

Steve could feel tension drain from Bucky's shoulders. 

"Let's go," Steve said. 

Bucky stood, but looked at the waiter who was making a rapid way toward them. "Can we just go?" 

Steve cast him a sideways look and said, "I don't think they could stop us." 

Bucky laughed and shrugged and brushed a lock of hair back behind his ear, a clear nervous gesture. Steve wanted to learn every nuance. 

They walked out, Steve apologizing to the waiter without explaining why. 

"How many hot dogs can you eat?" Bucky said, bumping his shoulder against Steve's as they walked out into the muggy evening. It smelled like piss, but Steve bumped him back. 

"Way more than you think."

"I have a good imagination."

"And I may not have the class for that place, but I have a little more class than hot dogs," Steve said. 

"Pizza, then?" 

Steve laughed. 

"Gyros."

Bucky kept listing food that Steve could buy him for several blocks, getting a little silly with it before long.

"We will fight the pigeons for their crumbs," Bucky said. "Lunchables from Duane Reade. Do you even know what Lunchables are?"

Steve touched Bucky's waist to halt their walk and was satisfied when he did, in fact, stop. 

"Here we are," Steve said and shrugged toward the restaurant next to him. It was nondescript, a clear glass front, a bold blue A on a piece of paper posted next to the door. Xian's Famous Foods, one of his favorites. He wanted to prove to Bucky that he wasn't stuck in old timey Americana. 

They ate noodles slick with red oil and fragrant with spices. They ate aromatic lamb and savory pork, and Bucky laughed so hard at a story about the Commandos, he dropped an entire dumpling into his lap. He waved it off, when Steve tried to help, and riposted with a war story of his own. 

"So it was a bridge near a culvert outside of Kunduz and bridges are bad fucking news, any choke-point is. Worse than that, we drive up and a private who knew enough said there'd been an IED here before. Insurgents are predictable and the US Army is predictable and of course everybody straight to the Persian Gulf knew that we were out and about looking for a somebody in the area. So Mendez puts the breaks on the humvee right before the little bridge, with no one even telling him to, and we are all staring at this stupid little dusty patch of road, all thinking about how big it was going to blow." 

Bucky took another bite of his food and while he chewed, Steve tried not to stare at the way the grease made his lips glisten. 

"I know I'm thinking about it—they moved me around a lot, but I was thinking that I didn't care about going where I needed to go that day, I didn't want to cross that fucking bridge. My spotter was there, the only other member of my team on that stupid fucking truck, and he was looking at me and I could just feel him thinking like, this would be the stupidest fucking way to die. Driving over a bridge wasn't the best story to your buddies about how you lost a limb." 

He paused to eat again, and probably also for dramatic effect. 

"I'm sure you could have made something up, if you had to," Steve said. He didn't look at the place where Bucky's left arm would have been. 

"Maybe you'll find out what I can make up," Bucky said with a grin, before shaking his head a little. "This isn't that story, don't worry. Anyway, we are all staring at our side of the bridge so hard we barely notice when up on the other side comes an unaccompanied donkey, just minding his own business and walking along. Who knows where he was going, but he starts to walk easy as you please right across the bridge. Mendez—he was driving, remember—immediately starts backing up and it's a good thing he did, too, because bam—" 

Bucky slapped the table and the dishes clattered, causing Steve to jump. 

"We felt the heat on our faces and our ears were ringing and that donkey was red mist." 

He grinned at Steve, like that was a punch line. Steve stared at him a moment and then laughed so hard he thought he would be sick. 

Bucky leaned back a little in his chair and picked at the remaining dish of noodles. They had gone through about four of them. 

"I had a feeling you'd get it," Bucky said. "Last time I told that story on a date, he actually faked an emergency call." 

"Well, it's a pretty fucked up story," Steve said, trying to catch his breath. "If even a story. There's no joke there, Buck." 

Bucky smiled big enough that Steve could see the etching of his smile lines. It made his face look soft. 

"You're still laughing, pal," he said and stole the last sip of Steve's herbal tea. 

Eventually they finished eating and Steve said that he wanted some ice cream. Bucky groaned and rubbed his stomach and told him, "Well, I guess I could watch you eat," but when they got there, he ordered two scoops of hazelnut gelato in a cone. Steve watched him lick it up a little too avidly when some dripped down the side of his hand. 

They kept walking, finished their ice cream, and kept walking some more. There was nowhere they had to be, so they headed vaguely uptown. They were just walking and telling stupid stories and really, for the circumstances, not actually all that uncomfortable. 

"This is a better date than I thought it'd be," Bucky said. 

"Yeah?" Steve said. His hand was in his pocket, curled around the velvet box. 

"I'd hold your hand but you're on the wrong side," Bucky said. 

Steve swallowed and went for it, because that was the thing he did. 

"I got you something," Steve said. Bucky glanced over, curious. 

Steve pulled him to the side of the sidewalk. They were in front of a closed nail salon. The neon pink light was on and it cast Bucky's face with strange shadows. Steve ran his fingers through his hair, probably making it stick up. 

He pulled the box out of his pocket and pressed it into Bucky's hand, keeping eye contact. 

"I'm glad you had a good date," he said, unable to not put a little bit of a joke in his voice, because he had to, as mild form of self-defense. "Because I came on it planning to ask you to marry me. And I had a really good date, so here I am doing it." 

Bucky didn't move. His eyes were steady on Steve's face, but as opaque as mirrors.

Steve held Bucky's gaze. He would not chicken out. 

"I know this makes me old fashioned—or at least makes me something—but I figure something like marriage is about making a choice more than anything. It's finding someone you like and deciding that you're going to love them, that this is the path you will take, and then you walk it. That's it, I think. I think everything else is just over-complicating things."

"This is certainly straightforward," Bucky said. 

He studied Steve's face for a long, long moment. Steve wondered what he was looking for and tried to project resoluteness, trustworthiness, whatever features Bucky was looking for in a husband. 

Bucky's face was intent but inscrutable. Steve wished badly there was some direct way to ask him what he was thinking, or even better, just have him narrate every step of his thought process. He wanted to know what the decision was looking like. He wanted to keep talking himself, pushing on something he barely understood with this near-stranger that he wanted to choose. 

He wondered when the stakes got so high. He tried to tell himself that if Bucky said no, that was no big deal, it had just been a couple dates. But he was lying to himself. The thing was, Steve was a man who'd ask a guy on the second date to marry him; it was a big deal the minute he decided to make it one. 

"Well," Bucky said, finally. "You haven't asked yet." 

There was something strange in his voice, but Steve's heart started pounding so hard that he couldn't dwell on it. He swallowed, mouth dry, and went to his knee. It was tradition. 

"James Buchanan Barnes," he said, fumbling with the box with fingers that felt too big. "Will you marry me?" 

Bucky bit his lip, closed his eyes for a breath, and then opened them. His face was still just a beat too long before falling into a genuine smile. 

"Yes," he said. "I will. And this is only not the craziest thing I've ever done because I spent eight years as a Green Beret." 

He reached out and took the ring, holding it up to his face to examine it. It was a simple gold band. 

"I promise to be less potentially fatal," Steve said, feeling a little giddy. He got to his feet and took Bucky's hand. It was his right hand, but Steve didn't care. It still felt amazing to slide the ring on. In a burst of daring, he brought Bucky's hand up to kiss the back of it. Bucky curled his fingers around Steve's and squeezed. 

"Now you have to kiss me," Bucky said. Steve kept hold of Bucky's hand and used it to draw him closer, using his bulk to press him up against the glass window of the empty nail salon. 

He took a moment just to look at him. Bucky looked right back. He was always looking back. After a moment, Bucky licked his lips and without thinking about it, Steve leaned down to taste them. The kiss was chaste and gentle and he could feel the slow movement of air in and out of Bucky's lungs. And then Bucky pressed himself forward, tilting his head and opening his mouth and bullying his way into Steve. 

Steve could taste the sweetness of Bucky's ice cream and the slightest fizzy burn of the Szechuan peppers. He let Bucky take control of the kiss.

They kissed until heat built in Steve's gut, a twist of something close to nerves but entirely different, and Steve broke off panting. 

"Do you have any family I will have to explain myself to?" Steve said, voice low. 

"No. You?" Bucky said. He looked down, pressing his forehead against Steve's cheek. 

"Not really," he said and then hesitated. "Well. The rest of my team is probably going to be terrible." 

"Lucky for you the rest of my team is dead," Bucky said, muffled. 

Steve's hand squeezed the hold he had on Bucky's hip and Bucky swayed into him, just a little, as if to reassure. "Let me walk you home," Steve said. 

"Maybe if you weren't saving yourself for marriage you'd make more rational decisions," Bucky said. 

"What explains you, then?" Steve said. He switched sides on the sidewalk so he could hold Bucky's hand and spent more mental energy than necessary focusing on the feel of the metal ring against his skin. 

"Inborn stupid," Bucky said cheerfully and swung Steve's hand between them. 

* * *

Steve wasn't a virgin. When he was eighteen, he sold an eight pager for more money than he'd had in his hands at any one time before and decided it was ridiculous to be a virgin peddling smut. He spent some money on a girl and got a perfunctory suckjob that blew his mind. 

When he was twenty, he discovered a bar where he was a lot more popular than he usually was and slept his way through the regulars, learning to suck dick himself. He found that he enjoyed it more than that working girl seemed to. 

Once he became a chorus girl and got a new body, he took it for a spin with half the other chorus girls in the company. They all enjoyed him and he enjoyed himself and it was a good time. 

When he woke up in the future, it didn't take him long to figure out Grindr and Tinder and he got his fill of that before deciding that he wanted to date for real, find a partner, and it all lost its shine. 

All that is to say that he really wasn't saving himself for marriage, but it had been awhile. 

That night, he reached into his boxers and touched himself, the echoes of Bucky's body still vivid against his. He held his own palm to his nose to smell sweat and salt and skin, even if it was the wrong skin. He made sure to use his right hand around his dick and he imagined figuring out what Bucky tasted like, the sounds he made when he came. He wondered if he would keep the easy charm he had the rest of the time or if Steve could strip him down to essential elements, leave him animal and bare and wanting. 

When he came, he wiped it on the sheets and snorted. Bachelor life would be coming to an end, soon.

* * *

Steve texted Bucky the next morning and asked him if he wanted a wedding. 

_not really. if it lasts a year make stark throw us a big party_

Steve reigned back the flash of nerves at the idea that Bucky was going into this with doubt. Doubt was reasonable. He had learned over the years that most people weren't as bullheaded as he was and Bucky had already shown himself to be closer than most. 

_In that case,_ Steve texted back, _what are you doing today? Want to come get a marriage license? I’ll buy you a hot dog_

Bucky texted back a thumbs up and Steve texted the address of the Office of the City Clerk and a time. Steve decided to walk there, even though it would have been an easy straight shot down the 4.

It was a grey day, threatening rain, but Steve whistled "Blue Skies" as he walked. He felt the same bone-deep rightness as he did every single time he had tried to enlist. When he walked up to the courthouse and saw Bucky tapping at his phone, it was the same swell of gratitude flooding his bloodstream as the 1A stamp. 

It was easy to get the license. They showed their IDs and the women didn't blink at Steve Rogers, not even when he had to correct her accidentally writing 1981 on the form. She had to know, at that point, but he appreciated her discretion.

"Have you ever heard of the creep rule about ages?" Bucky said, signing his name before handing over the pen. 

Steve signed at his own mark. 

"I want to change my name. Is that alright?" he said. There was a space for it, on the form. 

Bucky blinked at him. "Steve Barnes?" 

“Steve Barnes-Rogers. Rogers-Barnes? Which sounds better?" 

Bucky rubbed the back of his head and then bit at his thumbnail. 

“Steve Rogers-Barnes. Gotta keep the classic in there," he said, finally. He took the pen back out of Steve's hand and wrote his own name. 

"James Buchanan Rogers-Barnes," he said, in the rhythm of his writing. And then, "Steven Grant Rogers-Barnes." 

"When did I tell you my middle name?" Steve said. 

Bucky rolled his eyes. "Dude, I definitely hit up Wikipedia before agreeing to go on a date with you. And before date two, I read that Donaldson biography. You're way less noble than he said." 

Steve was smiling too hard to make his groan credible. "No fair," he said. "You don't even have a Facebook." 

"My mystery is part of my allure," Bucky said. He took their copy of the license and slipped it into the messenger bag slung on his hip. He ducked up and pressed a dry soft kiss to Steve's lips. 

"Fiancé," he said, breathing Steve's air. "You owe me a hot dog." 

* * *

After a couple hot dogs and some heckling, Bucky left Steve to go pack. Steve offered to help, but Bucky kissed him and said that his belongings were best described as meager. 

Steve gave Bucky a credit card anyway, told him to hire anyone if he needed the help. 

The card made Bucky pause. He held it between his thumb and forefinger, like a strange scientific specimen. 

"Steve," Bucky said. "Uh. Shouldn't we be getting a pre-nup? Or something? You gotta know, I don't have much of anything at all. Assets, or anything." 

"No," Steve said, short. "I don't want one." 

He turned away. There was no call to get angry about this. It was horrible to be upset by Bucky asking something which, frankly, all of Steve's friends would probably demand to know the details about. 

"Steve," Bucky said. His voice was hoarse and raw, like Steve was hearing it drag against abraded flesh on the way out of his throat. "Steve. You don't even know me." 

Steve looked at him, off-balance by the level of intensity. 

"I trust my judgment," he said. "And I'm in this all the way." 

Bucky looked angry at him, all of a sudden. His face looked a good five years older and his mouth was pressed into a hard line. 

"What the fuck," Bucky said. "Are you going to murder me, or something? You picked a good one, then. Or your weirdo agency did. How much did you pay for them to find me?" 

Steve rocked back on his heels and felt the tension in his jaw radiate all the way down his spine. 

"They haven't sent me the final bill," Steve said. 

"Fuck," Bucky said. His head fell forward on his neck and he grabbed a handful of his hair, pulling it out of the omnipresent bun. "Fuck, Steve." 

"I told you what I want," Steve said. His voice was high and he tried to push it into a register where he sounded confident and sure. "I want a husband. I want to make a life with you. I like you, I figure I could love you. People who know what they're talking about seem to think we'd work together. And I like you." 

He already said that. He sounded like an idiot. 

"Is this how they did it in the forties?" The scorn in Bucky's voice made Steve flinch.

"My ma knew my pa for two weeks," Steve said. 

“Were they happy?” 

"So she tells me," Steve said. "He died in the War--the first one." 

Bucky's anger seemed to drain out of him. He wrapped his arm around his middle, holding himself like he was injured. 

"Tell me again," Bucky said. 

"Marriage is a choice," Steve said. "Love is a choice—everything important, everything that matters is a choice. You decide and then you _do it_ and Bucky, I want. I don't know, these aren't the speeches I'm good at. I could tell you to die for your country, I've done that before, but you already decided to do that. You signed up for that. I'm just asking you to choose make a life with me." 

Bucky's eyes were wide and he was hunched over. He didn't even seem to be looking at Steve. 

"You're not so bad at that," Bucky said, finally. He pointedly took the credit card and put it in his wallet, opening it casually with his teeth. "A-plus speeches all around." 

He put the wallet back in his pocket and turned to go. 

"Bucky," Steve said and he hated the vulnerability in his voice. "Please. Why are you agreeing to this if you think I'm going to murder you?" 

Bucky looked over his shoulder back at Steve, brushing his hair away from his face. 

"When you talk about choosing me, wanting me—I believe that you want that. And—well. I've been looking for choices." 

And then he left.

* * *

"I'm a little worried," Sam said, before saying hello. 

Steve opened the door and waved him in with a sarcastic flourish. 

"I'm just saying," Sam said. "You text me and say you want a favor. Last time you knocked on my door asking for a favor, you thought there was some giant conspiracy that needed uncovering, I'm just hoping you aren't getting any more ambitious, I don't think the FBI deserves your wrath." 

"I got pizza," Steve said. Steve was already eating a slice, because manners didn't have enough sway over him to stop first-dinner, at least not for Sam's sake. 

“Pineapple?” Sam said. 

"I'm not Tony," Steve said. "I don't have standards." 

Sam laughed and dug into the pizza—pineapple included. They ate in near silence for a little bit. Steve was working up the nerve to say this. He knew that Sam wouldn't be happy with him. He's heard enough contemporary therapy talk, from Sam and others, to know that most people would say this was a ludicrous idea. He also knew that he could push Sam back away from his training, back into being his friend, if he was just stubborn enough. Problem there was that he was sure Sam-as-his-friend would also not be pleased with him. 

Coming back from the fridge with a bottle of beer for Sam, Steve sat down and steeled himself. He finished a slice of pizza, took a sip of his coke, and squared his shoulders. 

“Uh-oh,” Sam said. 

"I'm getting married tomorrow," Steve said. "I'd like you to be a witness at the courthouse for us." 

Sam blinked at him. 

"Congratulations?" he said, mindlessly. And then: "Wait, no. What the fuck, Steve, to who?" 

Steve fished out his phone and flipped it to a picture of Bucky, eating his ice cream and smiling. It was a good photo. 

"Well, he's hot at least," Sam said. "But who the fuck is he?" 

"James Buchanan Barnes. Retired Green Beret. People call him Bucky. He's from Brooklyn," Steve said. He wanted to add more, but honestly he didn't have all that much right now. "He's funny." 

"That's good," Sam said. "I think?" 

Steve watched, idly fascinated, as Sam visibly steeled himself to be a better friend right now. 

"Why haven't you introduced us?" 

It was perverse, but Steve felt a sick sense of glee. "Well, I knew you wanted to recover from the Russian mission and we just met last week." 

“Last week?” 

“Yep,” Steve said. 

Steve could see Sam start to work up a head of steam about this and then stop, abruptly. 

"Steve, are you okay?" Sam said. He sounded genuinely worried. "This is, uh. Pretty erratic behavior." 

"I hired an agency," Steve said. "To find me someone to marry. I'm lonely. Seems like he needs people too. I figure Bucky and I have a good shot, if we work at it." 

Sam sat back in his chair and Steve met his eyes. He set his jaw and forcibly prevented himself from crossing his arms defensively across his chest by gripping the edge of the table between them. 

"Hard work and stubbornness can't fix everything, Steve," Sam said. "I don't think it's the best beginning to a marriage, needing people in general instead of one person in particular." 

Steve's voice went hard and he let it. "I'm not actually asking for relationship advice right now." 

Sam raised his hands, rolling his eyes a little. 

"Okay, cranky, I'll let you make your mistakes. But nobody else will let this go that easy," Sam said. 

"Notice that nobody else is here," Steve said. 

Sam leaned over and snagged the beer Steve had brought him before. 

"Is it bachelor party time?" Sam said. "Because if I'm too old to party—and I am— you sure as hell are." 

"Nah," Steve said. "But I am going to make you watched Chopped." 

* * *

They were to meet at the courthouse at 11:30 and were planning on lunch after. Steve decided against the tux or his blues and went for a normal suit, but picked one that Tony had given him. It was exquisitely tailored and he took the time to study himself in the mirror. He would be a married man, in a couple hours. 

Sam met him on the courthouse steps and cheerfully tucked a red-white-and-blue boutonnière in his lapel. 

"I brought one for your bride if he doesn't wear his dress uniform," Sam said, cheerfully. 

"Don't call him that," Steve said. He had his hands jammed deep in his pockets and was struggling not to give into his nerves. He tried to find the same peace within himself that came in the moment just before jumping out of a plane or with bullets flying past his ears, but it was impossible on this sunny Tuesday in New York. 

Sam stayed quiet and let him think, which is one of the reasons why he liked Sam. 

Bucky was late. Just a little bit— it was just now hitting 11:45, but they were getting _married_ and he was late. He thought of Bucky yelling at him yesterday, the anger in his voice, and felt sick. 

He clenched his fists in his pockets and stood still. Sometimes, in moments like these, he found himself dragging his attention from the top of his body to the bottom, tensing every muscle in turn and then willing them to relax. It was something that he had been doing since he was a teen, but he woke up to learn that it was a legitimate technique of relaxation. It helped him especially after the serum because when viewed from the inside, with no resistance from the world, his muscles felt the same as they always did. 

A man and a woman kissed next to them. She was wearing a white sundress and had fake flowers braided into her purple hair. 

11:50. 

When Steve checked his watch, he wondered how long it would take Sam to call him an idiot. Of course, he wouldn't phrase it like that. He would be sympathetic. He was a really good guy. But that would be the subtext—Steve, you moron. Steve, cancel your credit card. He bet he could get him to agree to never tell the others, but undoubtedly Natasha would find out the minute he did anything weird with his financials—

"Hi," Bucky said, breathless. He touched Steve's elbow, getting his attention, and Steve's gaze shot up from the fixed point on the floor he'd been staring at.

"I'm so sorry," he said. "I—yeah. I'm sorry." 

No excuses. Just a flush on his face. He was dressed in his dress uniform. The beret looked incongruous with the few soft strands of his bun escaping and framing his face. He looked good in his blues, tie straight and tight, left sleeve pinned up neatly. Steve couldn't help himself and his gaze fell to the rack of medals on his chest. He recognized the purple bar for the Purple Heart and the blue for the Army Distinguished Service Cross. There was a dark ribbon with red white and blue that matched the boutonnière on Steve's breast. Prisoner of war. Interesting. There were others he didn't recognize on sight. 

His fingers reached out and pressed gently against the Distinguished Service Cross. "Didn't earn the Medal of Honor, huh?" he said. 

"God, you're an asshole," Bucky said, laughing in surprise. "Why didn't they tell me you're an asshole?" 

"Consider this me telling you I'm asshole," Steve said. “But _I_ have a Medal of Honor.”

"Well they didn't trust me to meet the President," he said, casually. "And they didn't want it in the papers." 

"This is a strange conversation," Sam said. He sounded amused. 

Bucky turned to face him, visibly startled. Sam held out his hand and Bucky shook it. 

"I'm his best man," he said. 

"Sam Wilson," Bucky said. "You do make the papers." 

"That's a whole lot of the point of the Avengers," Steve said. Sam sent him a sharp look, which Steve ignored. 

Steve reached out and grabbed Bucky's hand, squeezing it. 

"I'm glad you came. I was worried," he said. 

Bucky bit his lip, tucked his hair behind his ear, and ducked his head all at the same time. That was a whole lot of tells being thrown together, all at once. "I want to be here," Bucky said. "I was—held up." 

Steve let himself do what he wanted and he brought Bucky's hand up to his mouth and kissed his knuckles. Bucky looked startled, but he let it happen. Sam was watching everything like it was the best kind of television. 

They waited their turn. Steve loosened his hand around Bucky's, to give him space to let go if he wanted to—he didn't. He even leaned into Steve, uncomfortable, when someone came up to thank him for his service. They didn't even glance at Steve in his normal civilian suit—which delighted Steve. 

They didn't talk. Sam snapped a couple photos of them on his phone and then settled in to flick through it. Steve was comfortable with his thoughts. Bucky cast him glancing looks, contemplative. Steve just smiled at him. He felt unreasonably at peace. 

Some other couple was whispering about them. He could hear it, clear as if they were shouting. They took a picture and talked about tweeting it. Him and Bucky, they hadn't talked about the publicity, but Bucky was a smart man. Steve was sure he had predicted it. 

And there he was—he was watching the couple too, his eyes a little narrow. 

“Okay?” Steve said. 

"Not used to being Mrs. America yet," he said. 

"Your choice to wear your uniform," Steve said, shrugged. He got recognized, sure, but the full dress uniform was definitely drawing attention.

Bucky rolled his eyes, but he didn't let go of Steve's hand. 

Finally, it was their turn to step into the back. The officiant was friendly and professional. He had a distinguished mustache. He took their money and marriage license. He said a few words. Steve wasn't really paying attention. He was studying Bucky's face—unfamiliar and still mysterious. He was trying to discern the exact cartography of his smile. 

“I do,” he said. 

"I do,” Bucky said. 

Bucky was the one to lean up and kiss him, when they told him it was time. He smelled like peppermint. And that was that. They were married.


	2. Let's Fall In Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _We might have been meant for each other_  
>  To be or not to be, let our hearts discover

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from [a song by the Eddy Duchin Orchestra.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gHJTWyKAE2w)

Steve and Sam's phone buzzed in unison on their way to the restaurant where they had reservations for lunch. 

"Let me guess," Bucky said. 

Steve winced and fished in his pocket for his keys. He told Bucky to move in, make himself comfortable. Get settled. He didn't know how long it would be. Usually he had to be off comms—but he'd be in touch, when he could. He'd update their records—which was a very formal way of saying "Tell Tony"—that he had a new next of kin. Bucky'd hear about it, even if Steve couldn't tell him. 

Bucky leaned in and kissed him again. He didn't telegraph it and Steve was startled—but grateful for the slip of his lips against his own. The mint of Bucky's chapstick and the gum he habitually chewed were already comforting.

* * *

Steve was preoccupied, in his way. He had been doing this too long to be distracted—the rhythms of this were more familiar than brushing his teeth. He had a good team and he had adjusted to the Avengers faster than anyone expected him to. Truth was, he had always felt out of time in his own time and it wasn't any different being alone in a new century. He had to relearn some things—the electric toothbrush had been a strange sensation to add to his daily routine—but the basics stayed the same. 

Running missions, leading his team—that was the only place he'd ever belonged and even though the guns were different, the Avengers didn't diverge too strongly from the Howling Commandos. Steve always found himself the straight man to a bunch of real original characters. Every time he zipped up his suit and methodically checked the leather of his shield straps for any sign of wear, he sunk into a placid type of focus. 

Now, though, he found his mind wandering in down moments. It was always hurry up and wait on missions and now, instead of thinking of nothing or just doing breathing exercises, he found his mind idly returning to Bucky. The actual objective didn't provide any meaningful mental stimulation. It was one of the countless paramilitary groups that always seemed to be getting themselves into mischief.

He wondered how Bucky was finding the apartment. He wondered if he had everything he needed. His hand fidgeted with his phone in his pocket—he was well aware they were on a comms blackout, but he kept the phone with him anyway. It was off. He wouldn't call. But—if he had to. If something went wrong. He had someone to call. 

Before they went into combat, he slipped into the cockpit of the quinjet and quietly told FRIDAY about Bucky. 

"So, uh. You know. If—anything. Let him know," he said. 

"Sure thing," she said. "I'll even avoid telling the boss about the change until after everyone's home, how about that?" 

His sincere gratitude toward the artificial intelligence no longer struck him as odd; FRIDAY and her predecessor had proved themselves as valuable allies countless times in the past. He nodded at her sensor and slipped back out, adjusting his shield on his forearm. 

The fight was a fight. Nothing too difficult. He killed some people. They didn't get any good licks in, nothing that left him more than bruised and a little bloody. Before he knew it, they were on their way back to New York. 

"Did you notice that this group was using the same Kalashnakovs those guys in Nigeria had?" Sam said to Natasha, his wings open on his lap. 

"There are millions of AK-47s in the world," Tony said. He was poking at his phone—he always ended up aimlessly fussing while the rest of them checked over their gear. He'd double check the work of the robots, but they did fine. 

"They mostly had AK-74s, actually," Natasha said. Tony rolled his eyes. 

"Did they just reverse the number for the second model?" Steve asked, suddenly. Sam snorted, but Steve ignored him. 

"Nah," Tony said. "They're both years. The 74's the baby." 

"You're just old," Sam said. The bickering continued about nothing in particular. The team tossed barbs and tidbits back and forth in a complicated dance that Steve never entirely felt like he could follow. It rarely at this point had anything to do with his own birth year (Automat Rogers-18). He had felt the same way when _he_ was the baby. He figured it was like learning a language for normal people—if you didn't speak it when you were a kid, you weren't ever going to manage native fluency. Growing up, he had only learned to keep himself company. 

It would be strange sharing his space. Five days, they'd been gone. That was nothing. 

"My own bed," Tony was saying. "My own bed, my own robots, my own room service. Nobody knows how to make coffee like my people—I got ‘em trained just right. My own _blender_ , with my very own green shakes. My own _bed_."

"I'm sure everyone is excited to sleep on a mattress," Sam said, sending Steve a significant look. Steve looked out the window, pointedly ignoring him—but it was enough that Natasha raised her eyebrows, a glint of speculation in her eye. 

Five days, Steve thought, and wondered what the denominator for that would end up being.

* * *

On a whim, he picked up a bouquet of sunflowers at the train station. It was a little sad, a little wilted, but they were a cheerful yellow and he had abandoned his husband on their wedding day. He was confident that was a flowers-type situation. Sunflowers seemed a nice compromise between nothing and a more floridly romantic flower.

When he got to his front door, he realized that he should have texted Bucky and told him he was on his way home. He hesitated, deciding whether or not to knock, shifting back and forth on his feet. 

Before he made up his mind, the door opened in front of him. 

"You coming in?" Bucky said, voice dry. His hair was pulled up into a bun and he was wearing a simple white t-shirt, grey sweatpants. Steve peeked down to check and his chest warmed at Bucky's bare feet. 

"Yeah," he said vaguely. "I'm—I just realized I maybe should have told you I was coming back." 

Bucky moved out of the way of the door and shrugged. His eyes fell on the bouquet in Steve's hand, but he didn't say anything about them. 

"It's your apartment," he said. 

"It's just as much yours," Steve said. He carefully hung his shield up and laid the flowers on the table before detouring to the little closet off the kitchen where he kept his washer/dryer. 

"No, actually," Bucky said. "I looked it up while you were gone. New York is an ‘equitable distribution' state, which means that property you acquired before the marriage is yours to keep. So, the apartment is definitely yours and I own the clothes on my back." 

Steve heard the crinkling of the flowers. Bucky must be looking at them. He felt his back tense up as he unloaded his duffel into the washer. He wanted to start a fight about this and he wasn't sure whether or not it was the unfamiliar feeling of coming home to a person or if it was Bucky's strange stubbornness about this aspect of their marriage. 

"Actually," Bucky continued, voice wry. "These sweatpants I got on your credit card, so a judge would have to decide who should get them." 

Steve carefully pressed the button to start the wash. This was a great invention. He closed the door, mindful of his strength. Especially just after the change, if he had any kind of temper, he would break all kinds of things with no intention. He didn't want to make that kind of impression on Bucky. 

"Let's reach a full week of marriage before we start planning the divorce," Steve said. His voice was even. "Do you want to go shopping?" 

"Right now?" Bucky said. When Steve turned around, he saw Bucky lean in and take a long sniff of the flowers, making a strange face. Steve had specifically gotten ones that didn't smell, because his nose was sometimes over-sensitive, but before he could explain, Bucky continued talking. "Do you really want to go right back out, after getting home?" 

Steve definitely didn't. He wanted to eat as much as his stomach could hold and then pass out. 

"If you need anything, I can—" 

"Sit," Bucky said. "I made something last night I can heat up for you. If that's not enough, I got eggs." 

Steve sat and watched Bucky move around his kitchen. He still was palpably unsure about where everything was kept and it hadn't been set up for a man with one arm. The door of the fridge had a bad habit of swinging closed on its own and Bucky had to wedge his whole body in there to keep it open while he was rooting around.

"Do you want me to—" he started. 

"No," Bucky said. It was as firm as before, but somehow flatter. "I am perfectly capable." 

Steve took the hint and watched. It was hard to let someone else do this for him, even if it was as simple as heating up food already made. Steve felt a strange mix of emotions, pleasure and wonder and frustration fading into one another like watercolor paint escaping its intended bound and tinting the neighboring color. Bucky set a bowl of stew in front of him. It had an appetizing ruddy color, the surface slick with fat and bobbing islands of meat and vegetables. 

He took a huge bite, ravenous, and couldn't help his reflexive wince. It was unpleasantly sour and the beef was overcooked—it tasted like shoe leather dropped into cheap red wine, with the acrid bite of undercooked garlic. Bucky's gaze was steady on his face; the grimace would have been impossible to miss. 

Bucky stood up and went back to the fridge. 

"It's supposed to be a classic," Bucky said. His voice was too controlled to be apologetic or accusatory, but Steve felt guilty nonetheless. He took another bite and then kept eating. It was surely edible—he'd eaten far worse in his time, with his caloric needs—it just looked a lot better than it tasted. 

He was focused enough on getting the stew down that he was startled when Bucky set a whole store-bought roast chicken in front of him. 

Bucky sat back down across and smiled, a little rueful. "I tried for something Irish. I don't have much experience as a cook, but the recipe seemed nice and—" 

He shrugged and glanced away, just for moment. Steve carefully filed that one away in his small collection of tells that Bucky had shown in the time they knew each other. It was an interesting phenomenon to witness—most of the time Bucky put forward a mein of capable unflappability that Steve recognized from the Army, even the Army of eighty years ago. But there were these little moments of _something._ Steve didn't yet know what, but he was eager to find out. 

It was over quickly, though, and he turned back to Steve with one of those smiles that tried to bring Steve in on the joke. "Some house-husband I'll make, huh?"

There wasn't any overt bitterness in the statement, but Steve swallowed his bite quickly to reply anyway. 

"You don't have to be anything you don't want to be," he said. "I mean—you have options. We have enough money that you could experiment, try things out. You don't have to cook."

Bucky showily frowned. "It was that bad?"

"No!" Steve said, immediately backtracking. "I mean, you can cook! If you want to? I'd be really happy to eat hot meals. Or cold meals. Or chicken, I love chicken."

He reached for the chicken to give himself something to do. He felt off-balanced, clumsy. He was fairly used to that feeling in social situations, so much so that typically he stopped caring entirely. He said what he meant and he meant what he said. He tried to be kind, but he'd always be honest—people would take that as they chose to. But Bucky was pushing him around like a teeter-totter toy, this way and that way, with just the tiniest of reactions. If he described his emotional state to Sam or Natasha right now, they'd probably joke that Bucky was an enemy combatant—Steve usually saved his dramatics for the battlefield, and it was strange to be this emotionally invested without violence. 

Bucky laughed at him, but Steve was grateful for the cue to smile back. Bucky's eyes crinkled up around the edges, revealing the traces of what aging would do his face—Steve couldn't stop looking at them, when he noticed. He was caught by the possibility that (maybe, if it all went well) he could see the process all the way through, right by his side. 

When Bucky got back up from the kitchen table, clearly fidgety, Steve begrudgingly turned back to the chicken. He repressed his reflexive snort—Bucky had just set the whole thing, untouched, on a plate. There was a fork stuck in the breast. Steve would not pretend that he was above occasionally eating chickens whole out of the fridge, but at least he had the dignity of fully embracing his lack of decorum. 

"I can take that chicken right back from you," Bucky said, but he sounded cheerful. He set down a brand of barbecue sauce Steve didn't recognize and then touched his shoulder, ever-so-briefly. "I'm going to take a shower and then go to bed. Just stick the dishes in the sink, no need to wait up." 

Steve swallowed his mouthful insufficiently chewed, feeling the dry way it nearly stuck in his throat. He had the sudden impossible realization that they hadn't spoken about sex, beyond joking about Steve saving himself for marriage. Steve had a big apartment, but there was no bed in the second bedroom. Maybe Bucky had bought himself one? 

"Okay," he said, hesitant. He opened his mouth to ask Bucky about it, figuring it was best to get everything out on the metaphorical table, but Bucky was already gone.

* * *

Steve ate his fill and slowly did the dishes. He would have left them like Bucky offered, but he was stalling. By the time Steve had worked up the nerve to get ready for bed himself, Bucky was already asleep—or doing a good enough job faking it that even Steve's super-hearing couldn't discern the difference. It felt unlikely that he'd conk out that rapidly, but his breathing was rhythmic in a way that read like sleep to Steve and he was making soft snuffling nascent snores. 

He wondered if one day he'd be able to interpret those sounds with greater delicacy, understand Bucky's state of mind from his exhales. It was a nice thought to keep him company as he brushed his teeth. The white tile in the shower glistened with water, but Steve showered at the facility. It smelled like his shampoo—it purported to be odorless, but he could always tell. 

Bucky curled up on the side of the bed furthest from the door, his back facing Steve. His hair was wet and Steve saw the faint dampness on the light grey pillow. He couldn't help but take a moment to look at him—he slept on his right side, his arm up underneath his head. Steve imagined his anatomy beneath the thin cotton shirt, the angle of spine down to his waist and the muscle of his shoulders. His fingers itched to draw, but—well, that would be creepy. He knew he verged on it by standing here staring. 

It took all of his limited skills in stealth, but Steve slipped into bed and Bucky's breathing didn't vary. He wanted to face Bucky's back, continue looking at him—but no. He stared at the ceiling and listened with all his might—the cycle of Bucky's body going through the habitual business that kept him alive blended with the gentle thump of the washing machine, punctuated by honks and indistinct noises from outside his reinforced walls. He listened so carefully to Bucky's slumber that he missed his own transition between waking and sleep.

* * *

Steve's eyelids opened at the first touch of sunlight on them. His muscled ached with the cottony soreness that he felt now—distant and somehow artificial, like his body was made of plastic that had been distorted and the only he pain he felt was returning to his original form. Before he was even fully conscious, he knew that he was waking up the first morning after returning to his apartment from a mission; he knew that there had been no significant casualties; he knew he was presently safe. 

The toilet flushed and Steve bolted fully upright, the conviction in his own security rapidly displaced by alarm about someone in his space—before, of course, his brain fully came online and he remembered Bucky. 

Bucky emerged from the bathroom, his hair pulled tightly back. It didn't have the artful curl around his face of escaping strands that he usually seemed to cultivate. 

"Sorry," he said, his voice rough. "Did I wake you?" 

Steve licked his lips. "No, sunrise—No. Good morning." 

On his way to the mirror that Steve kept over his dresser, Bucky shot him a smile. Steve was entranced by the efficient way his hand picked his bun loose and the slight sigh he let out as the thick mass fell back down. He dug his fingers into his own scalp to resettle it into something less clearly distorted by the previous style—and, judging by the look in his face, it felt pretty good too. 

Bucky met Steve's eye in the mirror and Steve felt his cheeks heat. 

"I've figured out how to do most stuff," Bucky said. Steve was growing to hate that mildness in Bucky's tone—it always felt like a rebuke. 

"I was—it wasn't." Steve took a breath and got out of bed for an excuse not to have to keep Bucky's gaze. "I just like looking at you. That's all." 

He went into the bathroom and closed the door, feeling Bucky's eyes on his back.

Steve let himself luxuriate in the shower. He enjoyed the slip of water over his skin and the warmth seeping deep into his muscles. This was routine; he made time for these small physical pleasures right after a mission, the previous exertion justifying the indulgence now. Tony had teased him about his affection for fripperies like his unscented exfoliant, but Steve didn't have guilt about it, per se—it just felt better when he earned it. 

The light cocoa-and-vanilla scent of his shampoo reminded him of Bucky—Bucky using it, Bucky's hair smelling familiar before Steve even knew the details of his body. Steve wanted to know the details of him, the precise musk of his skin, the taste of his salt. Even thinking about it sideways, as a glancing blow, was enough to make Steve's stomach warm. His dick filled between his legs—not hard fully, but heavy. His hand curled around himself, almost as part of his routine of self-soothing. 

Perhaps it was inappropriate, to think of Bucky like this. But Bucky was his husband, wearing his ring on his finger. The thought of the ring—the pale gold Steve had bought for them both, the way it would be warm from the heat of Bucky's body—propelled him out of the shower. He dripped on his tile floor, leaving a puddle behind him as he scrambled out of the bathroom and into the bedroom, only considering the possibility that Bucky might have been in there when Steve emerged to an empty room. 

He opened his underwear drawer and got the ring out—he had left it behind, not willing to risk an injury to his hand. Putting it on felt satisfying, even if the chill of the morning air on his wet and naked body made him feel a little ridiculous. Now properly adorned, he took his hand and wrapped it around his dick again and enjoyed the way the still-cool metal felt on his skin. 

The moment had vanished, though. He let himself go and slunk back to the bathroom, turning off the shower and pulling on his sweatpants. 

In the uneasy silence where the sound of the water had been, he heard the apartment's other toilet flush and it felt much like waking up had, the vivid reminder he wasn't alone. 

Walking out of his bedroom, he ran into Bucky in the hallway. His skin was pale, but he smiled in that close-lipped way he often had as he looked at Steve. 

"Good morning again," Bucky said. His hair was back up, but this time he left it the way it was. "Enjoy your shower?" 

Steve refused to blush, but that at least didn't always listen to his will. "Yeah. Uh—"

He had the obscure urge to ask Bucky the same, but his hair was dry. Bucky's smile twitched around the edges, both more crooked and more real. 

"What are your plans for the day?" Bucky asked. Steve took it as an act of mercy, scrubbing at his hair to give his hands something to do. Perhaps it was strange to have this conversation in Steve's narrow hallway, but neither of them seemed eager to move. Bucky leaned up against the hall bathroom door, watching Steve.

"I'm not sure—I'm certain to get a message to go into work at some point, debrief about the mission and all. But usually they give us the morning off." 

Steve expected Bucky to be curious about where he'd went haring off to, interrupting even the modest plans they had to celebrate their marriage. Since he had experience in confidentiality, maybe he'd joke about that—but he didn't seem to wonder at all. 

"What do you usually do?" Bucky asked. 

"Nothing." Steve didn't bother to conceal the relish in his tone and Bucky laughed, a low chuckle that made Steve's chest sit up and take notice. 

"Well, that sounds like fun," he said. His eyes narrowed in consideration, but Steve's eagerness to hear what he would say next was interrupted by a burnt smell wafting in from the kitchen. They both turned their head in that direction simultaneously. 

"Wha—"

"Fuck," Bucky said and scrambled. Steve went after him, the same rush of adrenaline going through his body as when he had heard Bucky's unfamiliar presence this morning, but Bucky beelined to the oven and cursed again, rushing to get a pan out of the oven. Now Steve could clearly recognize the sulfurous smell of burning eggs. 

"I forgot," Bucky said through clenched teeth, dropping the pan in the sink. Steve looked at it over his shoulder. The pan contained a spongy brown object that likely was intended to be yellow, with the crispy edges of burnt leaves emerging from the thick skin on its surface. 

Bucky turned sharply away from the remains of the dish and faced the kitchen wall—Steve could hear him struggle to control his breathing. 

"Hey," Steve said, grabbing the oven mit that Bucky had abandoned and rescuing the food from the bottom of the empty sink. "It's okay. What's in it?" 

"It's a frittata. It came up when I googled breakfast foods. Spinach, bacon, cheese." 

Bucky's voice was strained, but he clearly was striving for a normal answer to Steve's question. 

"That sounds great," Steve said. When he tried to turn it out to the platter that was clearly waiting for it, it fell easily and clunked to the porcelain surface. It probably wasn't supposed to be quite that hard. This seemed like it had been cooking longer than Steve's shower had taken. 

"There's cereal in the fridge," Bucky said. He couldn't entirely conceal the wobble in his tone. "I'm sorry, I have to—" 

He fled the kitchen, going back into the hall bathroom as quickly as he raced into the kitchen. Steve wondered if he should follow to comfort him, but—well. Bucky had made no invitation. 

Steve cut a slice off the inglorious breakfast and tried it—it was dry, somehow both crumbly and rubbery at once, but it wasn't so burnt that it tasted like charcoal. Steve cut off half and plopped it on his plate. 

He was halfway through eating it when his phone rang—still chewing, he went to the counter where he usually plugged it in overnight and jabbed the button to answer it on speaker. 

"Rogers," he said, muffled by food. 

"Sorry, Steve," Natasha said. "But we gotta come in early today. Some of this stuff looks like it needs action." 

"Sure," Steve said, swallowing. "Two hours?" 

It could take him about an hour and a half of that to get to Manhattan. 

"Tony is coming to pick you up in about fifteen," she said. Unlike when she verbally apologized, now she actually sounded apologetic. 

Steve sighed. "Sure."

"In a helicopter," she offered. When Steve had first moved to Brooklyn back in 2013 or so, Tony had gotten in the bad habit of showing up in the Iron Man suit and expecting to carry him back to Manhattan when he didn't have the patience to wait for Steve to get there on the ground. After years of negotiation, Steve had found a tourist helipad that would let Tony land and managed that compromise. He refused to live in the few Brooklyn buildings that had their own helipad—if he could tolerate that ugly high modernism of glass and aluminum, he'd just live in Avenger's Tower. 

"I'll meet him there," Steve said. "Talk to you soon." 

Natasha hung up without anything more—Steve enjoyed how straightforward she allowed herself to be with him. 

Trailing his fingers along the exposed brick on the way from his small kitchen to his bedroom, he thanked God once again he had insisted on his own space. 

The water was running in the hall bathroom. Bucky. It was strange how Steve could keep forgetting he was even there. He didn't have the hyper-alert attentiveness he usually had when he had guests, but it wasn't quite comfort, either; it was almost like Steve had lost object permanence, Bucky vanishing from his consciousness the moment he left his sight. 

Steve lightly rapped the back of the door with his knuckles. 

"Bucky? You okay?" 

All Steve heard was indistinct rustling behind the door, before the faucet turned off and Bucky responded. 

"Just washing my hands," Bucky said. He sounded tired. 

"I'm heading out sooner than expected," Steve said. "Not sure how far out or how long."

"Okay," Bucky said. His voice had come closer to the door—Steve flattened his palm against it, uncertain. "Stay safe."

"I'll keep you updated," Steve said. "Have a good day." 

"You too," Bucky said. 

Steve waited outside the door for a precious few of his minutes, listening to the faucet start again. Bucky didn't resume washing his hands right away—the stream was uninterrupted—but knowing that level of detail about movements he wanted private was enough to chase Steve back to his bedroom. He changed and left, slipping his ring into the pocket of his jeans and slinging the shield over one shoulder.

* * *

The Avengers didn't scramble that day, but Steve could feel it coming. The data they'd routinely taken from the recently-annihilated paramilitary group on their mission wasn't overtly suggestive of any particular evil scheme, it was just—odd. Natasha presented the patterns of missing information, the connections that these personel had to the other petty terrorists they'd been grappling with, the shared make of much of their equipment, and Steve sat back in his chair. FRIDAY paused the footage taken from Tony's suit in the midst of battle on the screen of the conference room. 

Approximately 80% of the combatants' guns were glowing with color—red for the Kalishnakovs, orange for the TEC-9s, and in yellow, strangest of all, the single World War II-era HYDRA-model Luger. She had put this last and explained the findings with the sarcastic humor that was Natasha putting herself out on a limb. There were hundreds of millions guns in the world and a limited selection of armsdealers selling a limited selection of them. It probably meant nothing. 

Steve's eyes were drawn to the HYDRA pistol. He searched the image—grainy even through Tony's high fidelity eyes in the dark and smoke—looking for the tell-tale glow of blue underneath the orange. 

The eyes of the man wielding the weapon were familiar in a way that echoed the discomfort of seeing the gun—dark brown, heavy brows. The rest of his face was covered by a balaclava—he was one of the only ones to make any effort to conceal his identity. 

"Did we recover the Luger?"

"No," Natasha said. "I asked the SHIELD teams that did clean up and there was nothing like that. I was tempted to ask them for a count of the weapons they found, but."

She shrugged. The way they discovered this outpost was that the men there were selling weapons to Boko Haram. There were an enormous quantity of guns. 

"FRIDAY?" Tony said. A light swelled from the center of the conference table, an attentive soothing blue. "Follow the money and do what you can to figure out if any of these people were actually buddy buddy." 

Clint leaned over and snagged Natasha's tablet. "I'll talk to Fury about the type of questions SHIELD is asking, fill him in on your suspicions—unless you already have?"

She shook her head, but leaned in to show him where she kept her data. Sam glanced at Steve and raised his eyebrows, grinning. Steve could almost hear what he was thinking: sometimes it was nice to be the muscle. Nobody expected Steve and Sam to do any intelligence work—they were the military boys.

Steve smiled back. He was grateful for Sam, every day. Sam and Natasha were easily the best friends that Steve had ever made. Even the Howlies, as much as he trusted them, never were people he'd relax with—they had no chance to be. And Peggy—she'd been a superior, "and Steve never had understood how to square her overtures of intimacy with their positions. He hadn't understood how to give respect without distance—his previous mode of dealing with authority being pure obstreperousness—and he still wasn't sure he'd figured it out. 

"Want to go grab coffee for folks?" Steve asked him. 

"We have people for that, Rogers—" Tony said, but Sam was already getting to his feet. 

"Get me a muffin," Natasha said. Steve saluted her—he meant it as a joke, but he couldn't help the crisp edge of respect and didn't try too hard to repress it. It felt like progress. 

Sam and Steve strolled to the elevator shoulder to shoulder in comfortable quiet. 

"You think this is anything?" Sam said as FRIDAY opened the door for them. 

Steve shrugged. "I don't have a great track record in uncovering conspiracies." 

"That's not a no."

"It isn't." 

The elevator dropped ninety floors without feeling like they were moving an inch. Steve always stared at the passing numbers and even years in the future, still marveled. 

"Last time," Sam started, before hesitating and running his palm over his shaved head. "You weren't reacting to nothing. Fury was keeping something from you and Secretary Pierce all but told you that there was something to worry about." 

Steve shoved down the desire to snap and shut this conversation off entirely. He didn't like to think about 2014. He had chosen to move away from New York, be part of a regular and structured team, integrate himself into the existing complexes of power. He hadn't realized how much that structure would chafe—he was reminded that despite his title, he had never actually worked his way up to his listed rank. He was more vigilante than military at the end of the day, used to working on his own or in a team of misfits. After the debacle that lead to him discovering the INSIGHT algorithm and learning far more than he wanted to about how the NSA worked, he left Washington. 

He still thought of that meeting in the bowels of Fort Meade. Through the fog of incomprehension, Steve maintained concern about what he learned about Insight. But he didn't know enough to pin it down and put forward an actual argument. Even if he did, he had long since learned that even though there was always a clear path toward justice, most people in power were both unwilling and unable to take it. He thought it was something about the type of person that was capable of rising to authority—if people liked you, it taught you that all you needed was to be liked. 

They emerged from the lobby of Avengers Tower while Steve was still thinking, Sam allowing him the space to work things through. Sam's friendship was a worthwhile outcome of the fiasco; Steve tried not to think about the fact it took his fervent conviction in a massive government conspiracy to reach out to a stranger.

Sam opened the Starbucks door to let them in before Steve spoke again. 

"All we learned is that I don't have the stomach for politics—or the nose for conspiracy." 

"You do have the ears for justice," Sam said. "And the eyes for a fine piece of ass." 

Steve felt only gratitude that he had tried to pick up Sam that day, but he gently shoved Sam in the retialatory action he expected and enjoyed Sam's smile. 

"Speaking of," Sam said. "How's the new Mr. America?"

It was only Steve's superhuman resources that prevented him from tripping over his own feet. This kept happening; Bucky would leap to mind out of the void and shock him with his very existence. Steve hadn't fully internalized that he was married, that he had a husband—his lifelong quest for someone, anyone to be his was a success. His hand dropped into his pocket and he fiddled with the ring. 

"He's fine," Steve said. He wasn't sure that was truthful, but he had no further answers to give. Sam was his closest friend, but Steve drew a clear line between things that were his—sacred in their privacy—and he never disclosed. Steve would learn the mountains of things he did not yet understand about cohabitation and marriage the hard way, per usual. 

"Hmm," Sam said. Sam rarely pushed, but he had no qualms about being obvious in his concern. 

Stepping up to the register, Steve ignored him and rattled off the familiar group coffee order.

* * *

His own front door looming in front of him, Steve fished both wedding ring and keys out of his pocket. He slipped the ring on, but before he had a chance to unlock, the door opened—this was starting to be a pattern. 

Bucky grinned. "I made pie." 

Steve smiled back, hanging up his shield on the hook by the door. "What kind?" 

The mischief on Bucky's face meant that Steve knew the answer before Bucky even spoke. 

"Apple," he said, heading back to the kitchen. "I wanted apples and it made me think that you deserved some recognition for all you do." 

Bucky plopped down right in front of the oven, sitting cross-legged and staring into the murky glass. His face was lightly flushed from being so close to the heat and sweat meant that the wisps near his hairline were plastered to his skin. 

"Where are you finding all of these recipes?" Steve said. Everything Bucky tried to make was far more elaborate than Steve had ever bothered with—usually he evaluated food on how quickly and easily it could be made in quantity. 

Bucky waved his arm toward the living room. "I borrowed your iPad."

Steve followed his gesture and picked up the slab of glass from where it was resting on the coffee table. He opened it to find a whole screen's full of tabs, most titled some variation of "best apple pie." Fascinated, he flipped to one that talked about the historical roots of apple pie in America. 

"I hope it's okay for me to use it." 

Steve whirled around, pulling the iPad to his chest like he had something to hide before setting it back down carefully on the table, right where Bucky had left it. 

Bucky stood in the door of the kitchen, leaning against the side. 

"Of course," Steve said. "Really—you don't need my permission for anything. What's mine is yours."

He expected Bucky to make some crack about New York State Law again, but instead, Bucky's eyes narrowed. He searched Steve's face before nodding. 

"Noted," Bucky said. Steve watched him retreat further into the kitchen, playing back every detail of the expression on Bucky's face. 

"I'm going to shower!" Steve called after him. He probably didn't really need one—he had done nothing more physical than carry a coffee cup today. But it was a private space in his apartment. With the water on, he could escape the sweet smell of Bucky's pie filling the air and remove the temptation to trail after Bucky, staring.

* * *

In the cocoon of the shower, tucked away in the far end of his apartment from the kitchen, Steve let himself think about Bucky. Even through the buffering noise of the shower, he strained to hear his movements in the kitchen, any trace of him. It was appropriate for his observation to be so mediated and indirect—Bucky felt like a distant prize, a painting in a museum behind glass. Steve wanted to know everything about him—he wanted to stick his face up inches from the canvas of Bucky's skin, follow the brush strokes of his veins. Not even Steve had ever desired to eat oil paint, but he wanted to taste Bucky. 

Desire wasn't unfamiliar to him, but he coveted Bucky. He begrudged the touch of his own hand as he ran it down his belly because it wasn't Bucky and he wouldn't learn anything from the pattern of callouses. 

His hand still felt fucking good, though. He thought of the band of Bucky's underwear and how it peaked out from the back of his sweatpants when he was sitting on the ground—he could have walked right up to Bucky, and maybe Bucky would've smiled up at him in that enigmatic way, maybe he would've rubbed his cheek against Steve's dick through his jeans, pushing the teeth of the metal zipper between their skin, digging into them both. 

He would lean on Steve. Steve's cock—free of his jeans between moment and the next in the dream logic of fantasy—would be hot against Bucky's skin, leaking enough to make his cheekbones gleam. He could fuck Bucky's face like that, the smell of the apple pie intertwining with the salt of sex, and Bucky would be smiling. 

Steve came with a grunt, come landing on the tiled floor and drifting toward the drain. He scrubbed it with his foot, the heady rush from his orgasm plummeting into guilt in seconds. 

He wouldn't do that again.

* * *

The pie smelled delicious, but Steve knew Bucky's recent track record. He prepared himself for not tasting nearly as good as it smelled—or looked, because the pie was sitting on the kitchen counter, golden brown and with a faint sheen of egg wash on the top crust. Steve walked over to it, leaning over so he got a full nose of the fragrant air. 

"Let's hope I didn't fuck it up," Bucky said from the kitchen table. He set his iPad down and grabbed a knife to serve the pie. The inside looked as delicious as the exterior, with plump chunks of apple stuffing every bit of it, loosely held together by cinnamon and sugar. 

"I'm just enjoying looking at it," Steve said. His anticipation of the pie tasted sweet, his mouth watering already. 

When Bucky set the pie down in front of him at the kitchen table, he almost didn't want to eat it—the first bite was a step toward it being gone. 

But when he glanced up at Bucky to share his continued pleasure, Bucky's face was tight. 

"I've got you spooked, haven't I?" he said and Steve shoved a giant bite in his mouth to comfort him. 

It was delicious, sweet and tart and redolent of apples. Steve grinned around his mouthful.

"Fantastic," he said, caring more about Bucky's comfort than the etiquette of keeping his mouth full. 

Bucky's face softened instantly into a delighted smile. "Really?" 

Steve nodded fervently. Bucky hadn't served himself any of the pie, so he got up and took a fork to the whole thing. His eyebrows shot up at the first bite. 

"It's good!" 

"Mission accomplished," Steve said, a little giddy. 

Bucky rolled his eyes as he turned to finish the dishes, but Steve treasured the soft set of his mouth.

* * *

That night, Steve couldn't sleep. The closest he managed was an uneasy drift, the events of his day interlaced with strange and unidentifiable fears, but even that was fragile. The soft, utterly normal sounds of Bucky asleep were enough to jolt Steve awake. Now, at least, he was never unsure about who was in bed with him—the rush of adrenaline that Steve felt, from beginning to end, was all Bucky. 

On a normal night—or rather, before all this, Steve would've gone for a run, let the burn of his muscles fill him to the brim, all other thoughts spilling out at his feet. Now, though, he didn't want to leave the bed—he worried that if left Bucky's side, the unsettling adrenaline would transform into fear. 

He let himself turn around, let himself rest his eyes on Bucky's sleeping back. He enjoyed the sight of him. Looking at Bucky—even shrouded by sheets in the murky darkness, even with the apple of his cheek the only visible part of his face—made it easy to ignore his worries. Bucky's hair tangled at night. Steve wanted to braid it for him. 

A minute later, an hour, somewhere in between—Steve saw Bucky's face twitch, even from this angle. He did not know what time it was relative to the world outside, but he knew the exact moment when Bucky's sleep turned sour. The tension quickly spread from his face to the rest of his body—he didn't move much, but his jerking was sharp and unsettling. He curled more and more into himself, his knees heading toward his chest and his head trying to meet them there. 

Steve's heart pounded in sympathy and he didn't know what to do. It could be dangerous to wake someone from a nightmare, and Bucky barely knew Steve. Steve's unfamiliar face looming over him might be the last thing he wanted if he was already scarred. But—he hated to hear Bucky's panting breath, so quick he could hear the hiccups as it caught in his throat. Steve was falling short, second by second—inadequate even for this simple task. 

In the end, Steve reached out maybe less because he thought that was the right thing to do and more because if he didn't, he would be stuck in that aching uncertainty for who knows how long. Action was easier than inaction. 

Steve's hand rested open on Bucky's shoulder blade. 

"Bucky," he whispered. "You're having a bad dream." 

The muscle under his palm tensed solid and Bucky's whole body turned to marble. Then, slowly, Bucky sighed, letting out a long breath. 

He sat up, looking down at Steve. His eyes were alert, like he'd transferred all of his sleepy panic into Steve's body. Steve was clumsier when he sat up to join him. 

"Did I wake you?" Bucky asked. Steve could hear the effort in his voice—the easy, casual calm that Steve had seen so much of was a hard thing to do at zero notice in the middle of the night. 

"No," Steve said. "No, I—are you okay?" 

The light trickling in from New York outside shaded Bucky's face; the shadows under his eyes deepened as he smiled. It didn't seem like anything was funny. 

"Yeah," Bucky said. "I'm going to get a glass of water." 

Some of the poise he strove for returned to him as he got out of bed, pausing to lean into the mirror over the dresser and fixing his hair. Only after that important task was done did he glance back to Steve. 

"No need to wait up." It was a clear dismissal. 

"I'm happy to talk about it," Steve blurted. The darkness made it easier to say and the memory of that horrible indecision was just underneath his skin—he had to reach out, because otherwise he'd be left not knowing if he should have. 

Bucky's eyes dropped to the floor and he ran his hand through the hair he'd just fixed. There was a moment where Steve thought that Bucky would talk to him.

"I know," Bucky said. "I'm sorry, I'm not ready. You're really great, Steve." 

A hysterical part of Steve wanted to laugh, but he brutally repressed it—he wouldn't dare, no matter how ridiculous it seemed that he was getting praised for nothing at all. 

"You are too," he said instead. "I'm happy to get to know you." 

"Thanks," Bucky said. He didn't meet Steve's eyes when he left. 

Steve didn't sleep and this time, staring at the ceiling, he didn't expect to. After the tap stopped running, he heard the clink of the glass and then, nothing at all. Bucky was as silent as the grave.

* * *

At first, Steve had no patience for the idea that he was doing well, that Bucky was happy with him. He had no evidence for that other than that moment in the dark, where Bucky felt the need to reassure Steve before even coping with his own terror. He deployed Bucky's moment of discomfort and unhappiness as a battering ram against his desire, pushing back his ache to pull Bucky toward him. Bucky made no move to start a sexual relationship with him and Steve wouldn't take the first step—he promised himself that he would be good to Bucky, but he was uncomfortably certain that he wasn't good _yet._

He chose this marriage and he chose Bucky, but he wasn't the only one making choices around here. Bucky flirted and Bucky would watch him with dark eyes if he emerged from the shower in just a towel—Bucky would even touch him, sitting close enough on the couch that his warmth seeped into Steve's side. One night, palpably drained, he fell asleep on Steve's shoulder while they were supposedly watching Netflix. 

Steve shifted him carefully, letting him rest more firmly on his chest—he wouldn't want Bucky's neck to hurt and he was greedy for the warmth of him, the smell of his hair. He was starting to learn how strange it was to get used to a person's scent; in one sense, Bucky smelled like Steve's shampoo, mint gum, and the apples he couldn't seem to stop eating. But the sweet apple on his breath reached into Steve's gut and tugged in a way his own apples never seemed to. Steve used his shampoo everyday, but the smell of it coming from Bucky's hair curled in his throat, making a home for itself there. It didn't bear thinking about the animalistic pleasure he took in rolling over in the morning, Bucky's spot on the bed still warm, and pushing his face into the pillow. 

He wasn't ready, Steve reminded himself, at every small touch. He wasn't ready. He wasn't comfortable. Steve wasn't good enough, he had to hold on to that. He had never worked so hard toward pessimism. 

Hope was dangerous, because hope would unlatch Steve's reserve. Bucky was charming and beautiful; Bucky continued to attempt extravagant cooking projects and kept the house clean in a way Steve had never managed. Bucky asked good questions about whatever Steve wanted to talk about and Bucky laughed without restraint at The Office, only looking away from the screen to check Steve's face and see if he was laughing too. 

Bucky was all that, and if Steve wasn't careful he would forget the moments where Bucky would fold himself up and retreat, the tension he radiated at any attempt at discussion about his past, the moments where he got up from the table and left the room at speed. Steve didn't know what any of that meant, but he decided what it _had to_ mean. Steve had to wait. 

By three weeks of marriage, baffled and entranced and jerking off more than he ever had in his life even though he kept his mind away from Bucky, Steve decided he was going to believe that Bucky was truthful when he told Steve that he was happy to be married to him.

* * *

"I'm offended," Natasha drawled. Steve hadn't heard her approach, but that was expected. 

"I thought I was helping you." He waved vaguely at the pile of papers he'd brought out to the 40th floor patio, desperate for a new point of view both metaphorically and literally. "I didn't mean to—"

"No," Natasha said. Steve raised his eyebrows at the sharpness in her tone—usually Natasha only revealed she was upset in the most elliptical of ways. "I don't think you're going to get anything out of those records that the rest of us couldn't, but no. That's not it." 

She sat down in the seat next to Steve and stared at him expectantly. Steve's confusion only mounted. 

"I'm sorry, I don't—"

"You got _married._ "

Steve leaned back in his chair, deflating. He kept his gaze on Natasha's accusatory face, though he wanted to turn away. 

"It was something I wanted—I didn't know how to talk about it," he said. "I didn't know what to say." 

Natasha echoed the way Steve leaned back, looking up and into the sky. It was a lovely day, clear blue sky. 

"You should have called me in to check him out," she said. "Determining if people are trustworthy is _my_ expertise, not yours." 

"The agency did a background check—"

The glare she turned on him shut him up. 

"They determined he was honorably discharged and had no criminal convictions on record. I'm very impressed with their thoroughness."

Steve licked his lips and hesitated over his only and obvious question. Natasha wouldn't have come to him under this premise without having already done the looking that she felt she needed to do. She had probably known for at least a week, holding it close to her chest in the dragon's horde of data that she used for comfort, and acting entirely normally with him. He imagined her anger waxing into full fury, before coming to the conclusion that his continued failure spoke more to what he thought of _her_ than anything about him. He could remember the same process in himself, the way he stubbornly ignored hurt, transforming it into something else—her brittle insistence on her expertise felt familiar. He should ask her what she found—both because it was probably something he should know, but also because it would at least bring her in now, however belated. 

He should ask, but he didn't want to know the answer. Not if there was something to know. There was something growing in his apartment in Brooklyn—he didn't want to know. 

The silence lingered. 

Natasha lost patience with him. "I found nothing. Absolutely nothing." 

The relief Steve felt was dizzying. He beamed at her. 

"God, Nat, _thank you_ —that's really—"

"Steve. I found _nothing._ " Her face was grim. "I didn't find his high school transcript. I didn't find his college diploma. I didn't find the profile that marketers have for him when he browses online, I didn't find his phone number until I lifted it from your phone. He isn't on any calling lists and he has no social media. He has no credit, no work history, no known address. He doesn't exist. The only record I could find for him is that if you ask them, the DOD will confirm he is a veteran and his social isn't rejected as fraudulent if you try to run checks." 

"What does that mean?" Steve asked, quietly.

She sighed. She always looked exhausted after she gave bad news, once she finally could tell it got through. 

"I bugged your apartment hallway," she said. "Sorry, I know you hate that, but I would have gone in if he gave me half a chance and bugged that too. I got Fury to hook me in to the cell-phone usage within your place, and snagged all the packets of his internet browsing. And, well—I found nothing. I couldn't find dirt, the NSA couldn't, Insight couldn't. He looks up recipes, listens to music, reads the news. His internet traffic is completely normal. He doesn't leave the apartment except to walk to the grocery store, where he uses the card you got in his name to buy almost precisely what you usually buy, only more frequently. He's not doing anything."

Steve tried to temper his growing frustration. "Natasha, what does this mean? You know I don't care about the spy-craft—"

"I don't know," she said. "That's why I'm telling you the details. I have no idea. It doesn't make sense." 

She fished cigarettes out of her pocket—Gauloises, the blue pack made out of paper in a way that meant it was imported. It had taken her effort to acquire them, and care to remember that this was the brand he smoked for comfort. It hurt his heart that her ambush was undertaken with her expecting to have to apologize. He wished he could be offended about all the surveillance, but—Bucky. What did this mean about Bucky. 

His hands tapped the cigarettes and fished one out without his brain ever getting involved. He took a long drag once it was lit, his eyes closing. It tasted familiar in a way few things did. The familiarity of other parts of his life—simple things like apples, a cup of coffee, spaghetti in red sauce—had all faded into an undifferentiated mass of modernity. People drank coffee now, like they used to, and somehow that fact made it inadequate as a tool of nostalgia. 

But the taste of tobacco in his throat, no matter how strangely thin and empty it was in his enhanced body, that was comfort. Nobody smoked anymore. 

"What do you know about him?" Natasha asked. He was touched once more by her grace in giving him that moment before she returned to the topic. 

"Almost nothing," he replied, eyes still closed. "He wore some medals I could list out for you. He told a story about serving in Afghanistan that felt real. He's strong and fit, but he sleeps a lot. He plays things very close to the chest."

He liked comedies with a gooey heart and had hated Arrested Development enough that he'd asked Steve if they could watch something else, despite his general amiability. He was a bad cook, but he was getting better. He liked apples. 

Steve took another drag of his cigarette. "I think he's okay."

Natasha studied his face. "Huh. I didn't expect this to work." 

"What?" 

"I didn't expect you to actually start to care for him," she said. "Maybe there's something to this arranged marriage business." 

Steve didn't have the energy to bluster. He twirled the cigarette between his fingers, watching the cherry eat its way down the column of paper. 

"I expected it to work," Steve said. "And then at first, I thought it didn't."

He didn't say what he thought now, but he didn't need to. 

Natasha didn't engage in any of the rituals of comfort that Sam would have used. She doesn't touch his forearm in the feminine way Pepper did. She didn't throw distractions like Tony or fidget uncomfortably like Bruce. She stared, eyes hard and analytical. He found that more comforting than anything else—she played games, but she had long since let Steve in on the rules. 

"My gut says something is coming," she said. "But, I'm not certain he's the bad guy. There's a lot strange here, but. I'm not sure." 

And that was real comfort, in its way. In the abstract, they both likely would have already sent Shield after a man who had so thoroughly avoided surveillance. But when faced with Bucky, even without knowing the indescribable comfort of his warm breath, she hesitated. That had to mean something. 

Steve lit another cigarette. He swore these modern Galouses burned faster.

"Less tobacco in them now. I looked it up." She grinned when he looked up in surprise. "You always think the exact same thing when the first one burns down." 

"Thank you, Natasha. I really appreciate you putting all this work in." He didn't hold any of his sincerity back. She didn't wriggle away like most people would, when faced with Steve full force. He couldn't scare her away. "I didn't tell you because I didn't know what it meant. I wanted to figure it out before I spread it around." 

The flatness of her expression—free of any attempt to charm—was what affection looked like.

"I know the feeling." She stood and slipped back into a posture more appropriate to her yoga hottie clothes. Her smile turned beguiling when it turned toward Steve, but the secret they shared was that she was full of shit. "Keep me updated, Cap."

* * *

Bucky was cooking when Steve got home. Steve resisted the temptation to linger at the door, enjoy the biting scent of chilis and the muffled sound of Bucky humming to himself. He knew that it wouldn't be long before Bucky realized he was there and opened the door—he had an uncanny sense of Steve's location, even though Bucky regularly faded out of Steve's attention. 

"That smells great!" Steve put his ring back on and tossed his keys on the table right by the door. It was the same routine he'd done every night for awhile—there had been a stretch where the Avengers didn't have any away missions, but there always work to be done. 

"I am making noodles," Bucky said. "But they aren't ready yet." 

"You don't have to cook for me, you know." At this point Bucky didn't even reassure Steve when he repeated that, he just ignored him. Steve lingered at the doorway to the kitchen. Bucky was kneading. The dough was in front of him in a dense ball, and he dug the knuckles of his hand into it, over and over. It seemed labor intensive—without another hand, at every turn he had to pause to readjust. He was constantly pushed out of a rhythm. 

"I'm going to make a pie, too," Bucky said. "So I hope you're hungry."

Bucky took his attention away from the dough momentarily to flash Steve a smile over his shoulder. It was a good smile, broad enough that his nose crinkled up and he showed teeth. There was a streak of flour in his dark hair, which had seemed to only get more lustrous in the time they knew each other. The show of affection burrowed into Steve's chest and threatened to rip him apart. 

He let himself stare for several moments. Normally, he'd find something to busy himself with. Normally, he'd look away. But right now, his eyes traced the line of Bucky's neck, and his heart and mind sent clashing, urgent signals, both asking him to observe. 

It was Bucky's shoulders hitching up under the scrutiny that spurred Steve back into action. 

"I'm going to get some beer with dinner," Steve said, abruptly. He picked his keys back up. "Do you want anything?" 

For a moment, all Steve could hear was the thump of the dough hitting their kitchen counter. He knew that Bucky had never seen Steve drink, that Steve couldn't even get drunk. Steve was flashing signs that something was up as big as the ones on the freeway, and even Bucky's studied lack of curiosity was challenged. 

"Okay," Bucky said. "Some ice cream, if they have it." 

Bucky let him go without a word of complaint—that knowledge sent Steve running out.

* * *

The bodega on their corner sold both beer and ice-cream—Steve shouldn't take more than ten minutes running this errand. He walked right by it, hands deep in his pockets and hunched forward. He wore his ball-cap with the brim tugged low. It was more a social signal that he didn't want to be recognized than an actual deterrent, but Steve brought it out whenever he needed a talisman against other humans. 

Right now, he wasn't sure he could fake civility if someone wanted his autograph. 

He ran the scenarios in his head, forcing himself to reckon with the worst ones first. Bucky was sent to kill him. Bucky was sent to spy on him. Bucky had been part of one of the seemingly endless groups of paramilitaries, sowing chaos throughout the world. 

He remembered the swell of inexplicable recognition at the brown eyes of the man holding the HYDRA gun and he stopped dead in the middle of the street, feeling like he'd been dropped into the Atlantic. 

"Watch it," a woman said, crabbily stepping around him. 

The timeline didn't work—Bucky was home with Steve during that mission. And the man had two arms. 

He started walking again, fishing his phone out of his pocket and hitting Natasha's speed dial. 

"Check out the man holding the HYDRA gun in that footage from Borno. Find out anything you can about him." 

"What do you think I've been doing?" Her voice bore an echo of the affronted woman in the street. He was a very inconvenient guy. 

"Nat," he said. "I know his eyes were the wrong color and he had two arms, but—I don't know. I don't know. I recognized him. It's been bugging me for weeks." 

"Contacts could take care of the eyes, but what do you about the arm?" 

Steve didn't bother to answer Natasha's rhetorical question. "Just—find him. Figure out who he is. It's probably nothing, but—"

"Maybe it's something," she said. "I'll call you. Unless you have any more information for me?" 

"Nothing," he said, so she hung up on him.

* * *

He was keyed up in a way that walking down the sidewalk couldn't begin to touch. He should go for a run, or find something to punch, but all he wanted to do was go home. He wanted to study Bucky with his own two eyes and find the truth in him. 

The couple miles between him and his home disappeared underneath his feet and he was home before he knew it. The apartment still smelled like chiles, but the thick sweetness of apple pie all but smothered whatever Chinese noodle dish Bucky was making.

Bucky wasn't in the kitchen, but Steve took the opportunity to examine the still inchoate dinner spread. He recognized the look of that sauce and a furtive dip of his finger confirmed—it was the cumin lamb they had the day Steve asked Bucky to marry him. 

His eyes closed and he rocked back on his heels, his breath shuddering in his throat. Either Bucky was for real, or Steve would never trust his judgment again. Either Bucky was real and what they were building was real, or people are more capable of cruelty than even his cynicism understood. 

It took long enough for him to gather his composure that his nose started twitching—not from holding back tears, but from the smoke coming from the oven. 

Steve scrambled. "Bucky! Bucky, the pie is burning!" 

He hesitated over the oven—he hadn't interfered before in Bucky's cooking, since Bucky made it clear that he wanted to do it himself. But Bucky wasn't coming and the acrid smell of burning thickened in the air. 

He took the pie out and tried not to interpret the blackened, pathetic looking husk of it metaphorically. How long had Bucky left it in? This was a lot, even for a guy that fairly regularly screwed his cooking up out of absent-mindedness. 

Steve opened every door in the apartment, but Bucky wasn't behind any of them. He maintained his composure until he found Bucky's phone, still plugged in next to Steve's on the kitchen counter, and his wallet underneath it.

He had been listening to a playlist called "Popular Music of the 1930s." Bucky never left the apartment except to shop, which he couldn't do without any money. Bucky had no reason to leave, but he wasn't here. 

With shaking fingers, he called Nat. 

"Did you remember where you knew him from? Because if not, leave me alone." 

"Bucky's gone."


	3. Until the Real Thing Comes Along

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _I'd gladly move the earth for you  
>  To prove my love dear and it's worth to you  
> If that isn't love, it'll have to do  
> Until the real things comes along_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from [a song by Dean Martin.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=l0Nb4Olewtg)

"Don't touch anything," Natasha had ordered, so Steve didn't. He sat on the couch and stared at his blank television. But it wasn't long before his eyes had to wonder, uncomfortable with the gloomy reflection of his own face he could see there. 

His body moved under his control like it was an alien spaceship intended for gravity much lighter than earth's, slow and unresponsive and distant. He had this urge to scream and cry and break shit—throw the sort of temper tantrum that Sarah Rogers would never have tolerated when he was a harmless child, and now he could probably tear this building to the ground. And this building was older than he was, ponderous brick with walls so thick they barely had to use gas to heat it. 

Imagine, him living in a place like this. Imagine, him married to a man. Sarah wouldn't have known what to do with any of it, other than love Steve and wish him well. 

Thoughts slipped from his grasp like tools from frozen fingers. It hadn't been long, he thought. It hadn't been perfect. But he had thought they were building something, and Bucky was gone—

The world sped back up into its usual speed when he saw the knife wedged six inches deep in the door frame. 

Steve had no memory of moving toward it, but there it was and he examined it—careful not to touch. He didn't own this knife. It was a big, heavy combat blade, serrated to rip through flesh. It had sunk into the hardwood of the doorframe with barely any splinters—someone had thrown it with a great deal of power behind it, but thrown it at what? 

There was a strange sick feeling of relief as he went back to the kitchen, cataloguing details he had missed before. 

Shards of broken glass glinted near Bucky's abandoned lump of dough and there was a streak of blood, clumsily wiped up—when he checked the trash, there was a balled up paper towel stained a shocking red. 

Maybe Bucky had dropped something and cut himself on it and it was nothing at all. Maybe he had walked out to get medical attention. But—the knife in the door. And—there was a scrap of orange plastic, kicked in the little channel underneath the counter. 

Steve didn't touch it, but he stayed there, trying to figure out what it was. 

He heard Natasha let herself in and it came to him. 

"Someone took him," Steve said. "They drugged him, he tried to fight back, and they took him. This is a needle-guard for a syringe." 

He nodded at the plastic. Natasha crouched down and looked at it. 

"That explains your unusual wall-art." 

"I don't own that knife," Steve said. "And I would have sworn to you Bucky didn't have any weapons." 

Natasha surveyed the kitchen around her slowly, eyes narrowed and serious. She stalked her way from room to room in the apartment, taking the time to examine every window, every lock. She ended at the front door and then turned to Steve, grave. 

"I agree. He was kidnapped," she said. "And whoever took him had the key to your place."

* * *

"Did anyone try questioning Steve's locksmith?" 

"Steve's keys are treated quite literally as a matter of national security. He doesn't have a locksmith." 

"If it's that much of a big deal, then why does he have a normal lock at all? I could get something much more secure mocked up in twenty minutes flat." 

"You can tell if his lock is picked, it'll jam—"

Steve tuned out from Natasha and Tony's bickering. It sounded pointless, but this is how they worked through problems—Tony needed to think out loud and Natasha had the most patience in indulging him. But Steve didn't want to listen to it. 

Natasha had seated him in front of a monitor with CCTV cameras pointed near his apartment and told him to watch for anything suspicious. And then she reassured him that FRIDAY was double checking his work. 

He took that as the permission it was, letting his eyes glaze over with the flickering greyscale images of a normal day on a normal Brooklyn street. Nothing stuck out—he saw himself, even, walking with purpose toward a feigned errand. That wasn't all that long ago. 

"Have we scrambled SHIELD's people?" Tony was saying. 

"They're one of the only possible sources for that key," she said. "What's the matter, can your AI not handle it?" 

Sam sat down next to Steve and bumped their shoulders together. He didn't ask how Steve was doing—Sam never asked pointless questions like that. 

"You've had a shitty day," Sam said. 

Steve snorted. "I have. Did you hear, my pie was burnt?" 

"Oh, tragedy," Sam said, pulling a woeful expression. 

"Bucky was making pie," Steve said. Sam's face eased out of frivolity and he gave Steve the gift of his attention. "He was making pie, and cooking the noodles we ate when I asked him to marry me, and I thought he might've been sent to kill me." 

Sam blinked. "That is not where I thought that sentence was going." 

"Natasha didn't update you?" Steve said. He sighed and rubbed the top of his head. He was starving, but he didn't want to eat anything. He'd eat the carbonized pie and raw dough for the noodles, but anything else felt like giving up. "There's no trace of Bucky on any of our networks. Nothing at all. He's a ghost. She even put him under surveillance, and he still didn't do anything interesting." 

He paused. "Nat? Did you check your bug?" 

She sat up stick straight before reaching for her computer and starting to type. Moments later, she looked at Steve with the empty affect she fell into when she was truly surprised. 

"My bug is on the move," she said. "It's in New Jersey. He must have grabbed it while they were dragging him out the front door. Who is this guy?"

"So you have a location," Sam said. He didn't wait to hear her confirmation before standing up and walking in the general direction of the ready room. "Time to kick some ass." 

Steve was right behind him.

* * *

The rest of the Avengers were incommunicado, but the four of them could almost certainly handle anything kept in Jersey. The mood was somber on the short quinjet ride. Steve could feel the severe cast to his features and knew he was putting quite the pall on any of the normal bantering. He didn't care. It felt appropriate. 

They were going to rescue Bucky and Steve was going to get some goddamned answers. 

Steve checked his gear, like he always did. His eyes focused on each and every tiny stitch in the leather of his shield strap, like there'd be some secret there. His rituals were heavier today; there hadn't been a mission since the forties that had this same sense of terrifying stakes. He didn't exactly have a death wish, before now, but—well. Now he had something he needed to do before he kicked the bucket. He at least needed some answers before he died. He had to know—who Bucky was and what he was trying to do. (He had to know if it was going to work.) And Bucky had to live, too. Without him, Steve would never know. 

Steve was doing his final check when he noticed his wedding ring. He hadn't taken it off with the team, today. He didn't think of it. He didn't want to take it off, but he also didn't want to lose the skin of his finger. He twisted it restlessly, trying to will himself to remove it. 

Tony appeared in front of him, suit open to the waist. It was like he was wearing a throne of machinery. 

He twirled some wire between his fingers at Steve; Steve stared blankly back. 

"To put your ring on your neck, dumbass." Tony rolled his eyes, but he let Steve take the wire and fashion a make-shift necklace from it. 

"Thanks," Steve said. 

The hydraulics of his suit whirring faintly with the subtle movements, Tony leaned in and used the very tip of one of his gauntleted fingers to saucer the ends of the wire together, completing the circle. 

"It won't win any fashion awards, but." He didn't finish that sentence, uncomfortable as ever with any show of sentimentality. 

"Thanks," Steve repeated. He had no reserves to deal with this and none of his usual methods felt adequate—he couldn't bulldoze his way through Tony, or ignore him. All he had was the quiet gratitude for Tony's penchant for problem solving.

Tony nodded and clanked back over to his side of the quinjet. 

FRIDAY announced that they had arrived at the last recorded location of the bug and that there were no visible hostiles. 

"It appears to be an abandoned military base, boss." 

"Is that actually-abandoned or artfully-abandoned?" 

There was a pause, presumably while she evaluated the scanners. "It's a solid 'situation murky." I can't see inside—there's heavy shielding on part of it. But if you wanted my probabilistic estimate—"

"—just say guess, FRIDAY, don't ruin my aesthetic for you—"

"—I'd say you should be prepared for a fight. Normally abandoned World War II-era bases don't have such modern shielding." 

Steve walked to the monitor and FRIDAY obligingly turned it on for him. His heart leapt to his throat. 

"What?" Sam said, standing next to him. 

"I trained here. Before I was—" Steve gestured vaguely at his own chest. 

"That's cute," Sam said. "Your boy made you a nice meal, and now he's taken you to a meaningful place from your past. What a great anniversary celebration." 

Steve stared at Sam, who kept right on talking. 

"It's definitely a little middle school to celebrate your one-month, but I give you permission—"

"—I don't," Tony cut in. "Ew, gross. I'm glad you didn't invite _me_ to the wedding." 

"Let's go," Steve snapped. He was officially out of patience—he was going to get his husband back.

* * *

On the ground, Steve rapidly spotted the anomaly. 

He pointed at the misplaced building and FRIDAY helpfully murmured into each of their ears that in addition to being lead-lined, the location was against Army regulations. 

"Who'd have thought your age would help your strategy?" Tony said. He could speak freely—no sound was escaping the heavy metal of his helmet. 

Steve ignored him and stalked his way toward the door. He didn't have any more orders—the only thing he could have said was for them to stay sharp, and they already knew that. 

He kept his eyes locked on his target. He hated this place—he didn't want a single reminder of how disappointed he'd been, that his idealization of Army life had been wrong. He worked hard and proved himself, but he had been the same person, even then. He had still been alone. 

But Steve had a team, now. He had a team, and he had a husband, and he had work to do. He slammed his shield against the padlock holding the door closed—it shattered into pieces. 

When they entered the building, FRIDAY chirped out an update. "Lots of hostiles, boss. This place is lit up with radio from comms and body heat." 

Now that he was inside, Steve could hear the echo of crashing and gunfire—it was coming from the elevator. Steve pushed the call button, a couple times in a row, before Tony blasted it open. 

"If they're already shooting, we don't need to be subtle. Down we go, Cap." Tony grabbed Steve under his armpits and jumped into the darkness, Sam taking Natasha behind them. Tony melted the top of the car at the bottom of the shaft and dropped Steve through. 

Steve strolled out of the elevator and into a war zone—he hears repeated clack-clack-clack of automatic fire, punctuated by the grunts and shouts of men in pain. He ran, not checking if his team was following but knowing they would, and bodily threw himself through the door. 

It was carnage. The room was reminiscent of an operating room, with a bed in the middle and a stainless steel table knocked over on its side, but Steve hadn't ever seen an OR with that level of heavy restraints. 

He assessed the physical aspects of the room in the lightning scrutiny of combat, the dead and dying around him just more obstacles to avoid if he was to be attacked, but more urgent were the living—not that there were many of them. The only real movement was in a back corner of the room, behind a blinking server bank that glowed an ominous green. Moving cautiously, but with the certainty that he wanted to help who ever was slaughtering these people that had taken Bucky, he crossed the room. His arrival was punctuated by a final gunshot and the thump of a body falling to the ground. 

Bucky stood with his back to the wall, his arm dropping to clutch his middle, gun in hand and still in the sweats that he'd been wearing in their home. His teeth were bared and his eyes were white-rimmed, a streak of blood across his cheek so gory that Steve couldn't tell if it had a wound underneath it. Steve lowered his shield, reflexively, but the ferocity in Bucky's expression prevented him from entirely dropping it. 

"I need medical attention," Bucky snapped. 

Steve surged toward him, the shield falling. He didn't hear it hit the ground because his blood was too loud in his ears. 

Bucky shied away, pressing himself harder against the wall. His shoulders were square, though, and his grip on the gun was firm—Steve was certain Bucky would turn the weapon on him, if he kept moving forward, though he wasn't sure why. He wasn't sure it should stop him, but he had gotten used to stopping at Bucky's signal. 

"I've got training," Steve said, trying to reassure. "I can triage while we get you to a doctor—Tony, are you hearing this? We need evac ASAP." 

"Not you," Bucky said. He pushed himself off the wall and stepped over the corpse in front of him. His foot skidded through a puddle of blood and he almost lost his balance—he leaned his shoulder against the server rack. It was heavy enough that it didn't move, but Steve could hear the clatter of hard drive disks jostled by the impact.

Steve hovered next to him. "I can carry you, at least—if you have a gut wound, you really shouldn't—"

Bucky didn't even look at him. His entire body was tense, but once he stood upright once more, he moved with purpose, making his way to the entrance. The only reason why Steve didn't pick him up and carry him, despite whatever signals Bucky was giving him to back off, was that he certainly wasn't moving like a man with a life-threatening injury. 

Steve felt the same drenching powerlessness that he had felt watching Bucky's nightmare, following him. It wasn't like what he had felt after Bucky had been kidnapped—that had been a horror, but the wrench of sudden absence was familiar to him. This was worse, in a way he couldn't justify. He was present, and the person he wanted to help was present, but he didn't know what to do. 

The rest of the team met them. 

"I need doctors," Bucky said, to Tony. "Doctors you can trust, really trust." 

Tony glanced at Steve, but Steve bit back his instinct to bark a confirming order. Tony had enough information. After a beat, he nodded. 

"Come to papa," he said, holding out his arms. "The only reason why I'm letting you use the Iron Man Ambulance is because I know your insurance covers it—otherwise, you'd rather die than get that medical debt." 

There was no trace of humor in Bucky's face, but no hesitation either. He stepped into Tony's grasp and Tony took him—hopefully to the doctors he needed. 

Steve watched them go. 

"Well, that rescue was anti-climactic." Sam, trying to lighten the tension. 

Natasha had stepped around them and entered the server room, studying it silently. Steve knew that there was a vast array of investigation that had to be done about this place, about the people who had taken Bucky here. At the very least, the DOD would want to know that old military installations had non-sanctioned tenants. But Steve couldn't think of that, now. He went back into the room, eyes unable to catch anything about the specifics, grabbed his shield, and exited via the fire escape.

* * *

Tony had tried taking Bucky to the nearest ER, he found out later, but Bucky had insisted they go all the way back to the Avengers personal medical suite in Stark Tower. Tony told him about it—Steve knew that, he could remember the rhythm of the ritualistic complaints. He wasn't hearing any of the content. 

The chairs in the waiting room were comfortable. Tony had built the place with the expectation that his friends and loved ones were the ones using them, and they were correspondingly overstuffed arm-chairs, a comfortable and cozy vibe that was incongruous not only with the idea of waiting in a hospital, but also Tony's normal design aesthetic. It was never good, when you were sitting in this chair. 

Sam put a cup of coffee in his hand and Steve stared at it. He settled in the chair next to Steve, but stayed quiet. Bucky had been in one of the examination rooms for over an hour. Since getting here, Steve had been sitting as silently as he could, trying not to even breath—he wanted to hear of they started prepping the operating room. Nothing, yet. There had been movement, but it wasn't urgent. 

"No news," he said, after too long of a pause. 

"I figured. Drink your coffee." 

Steve took a sip. The sweetness of it was almost sharp on his tongue. Sam was trying to get calories into him, since that would do him more good than any amount of caffeine. 

The elevator whirred and stopped, opening to reveal a woman that Steve didn't recognize. She had her hair pulled back in a severe bun that had the look of someone getting dressed too quickly to concern themselves with aesthetics. She was staring at her phone and frowning—when she looked up and saw two Avengers peering at her curiously, she started with surprise. 

"Sorry—I'm Dr. Sanchez. I presume I'm in the right place, but—" 

Sam tipped his head toward the door. "That's the way to the back." 

She looked flustered, glancing down at the phone again, and then the door, and then back to them. "You know, I keep thinking that this is some kind of prank, but then the car shows up, and then I'm let in, and now you two are here—I don't know know what to make of what Lisa said, but—" She shrugged. "If this is a joke, she deserves credit for how elaborate it is." 

Lisa was the head physician. Steve's stomach churned, and he set down the coffee. 

"If they need you, you should go back," he said. His voice was shorter than it should've been; he usually had more patience with the strange casualness of strangers. 

"Of course," she said, slipping her phone in her pocket. She drew on the cloak of medical respectability and made her way through the door. Sam and Steve were left in silence again. 

"FRIDAY, who was she?" Sam asked. 

"Don't," Steve snapped. "I want to hear it direct." 

More information would just give him more things to uselessly dwell on, and it felt not right besides. Bucky was back there, and something was happening to him. He had refused all Steve's attempts at help, deciding that Steve's skills were unnecessary. When Steve had asked FRIDAY about if he could go back, she said he had asked for no visiters, including Steve. Whatever was going on, Bucky had made clear that he didn't yet want Steve's input. 

Sam didn't argue, but he did take out his phone. Steve figured he was asking FRIDAY for the information by text. The knowledge burned Steve and he resisted the urge to slap the phone out of his hand. He couldn't help himself, though—he kept Sam's face in his peripheral vision, watching the way his brows furrowed in confusion. Apparently the answer wasn't elucidating. 

Steve waited. He attempted his usual ways of relaxing, but they were useless. Instead, he sat as still as he could, knowing that any movement would be uncontrolled. 

The moment stretched. Every new instant felt like it would be the breaking point, like he was going to snap, but the moment continued. Still, he waited. 

When the door opened from the inside, Steve didn't yet relax. He had felt for the entire time waiting that he couldn't take the uncertainty any longer and yet he had withstood it—even Lisa's familiar creased face seemed like it could not possibly end Steve's waiting. 

"Come on back, Steve," she said, and held the door from him. Steve stood up very slowly, glancing at Sam. Sam didn't make any move to either follow or leave—he sent Steve a small smile, but immediately turned his focus back to whatever game he had been playing on his phone. 

"They're both fine," Lisa said, as they walked down the short hall to one of the exam rooms. "I want to tell you that right away. We're going to have words later about keeping this from us, but they're fine." 

Steve—Steve couldn't even begin to understand that, but his sense of dislocation was so deep that the confusion didn't even make a ripple. 

Bucky was seated on the simple couch that passed for an exam table. He was in a new pair of sweats and was clean, hair damp and pulled back. A deep cut on his cheekbone was sutured with neat white strips—other than that, he seemed unharmed. Dr. Sanchez sat next to him, looking at something on a tablet. Bucky couldn't quite meet Steve's eyes.

"You're okay," Steve said. It was somewhere between a question and confirmation.

"Yes," Bucky said. "Looks like." 

He swallowed, hard—Steve watched his Adam's apple bob. "So is the baby."

* * *

The doctors thoroughly scolded Steve for not encouraging Bucky to have pre-natal care. Neither Lisa nor Dr. Sanchez—Isobel, she introduced herself, having now seen Lisa's example—seemed to be able to bring themselves to directly chastise Bucky, but they certainly felt like they had a lot of chastisement to do. 

"In any pregnancy, it's very important to maintain close contact with doctors," Lisa was saying. "That's vastly more true in a case like this, when the medical procedures that lead to the possibility were so clearly—" She paused, obviously stymied for a moment. "Experimental. I know you know we can get you whatever specialists you or your family need—Isobel is one of the best OB/GYNs in the city—she's obviously going to have to bring in a bigger team, but you couldn't have anyone better on your side. We think everything's fine, but there's so much we don't know." 

She wasn't quite looking at Bucky. Bucky wasn't quite looking at Steve, focused instead on the doctors. Steve couldn't tear his eyes away from Bucky—he found himself doing an inventory of the parts of Bucky's body. His nose, the cleft in his chin, the blue scrape of growing stubble. Steve understood the specifics of what Lisa was saying, and he could even make some deductions about the implications of her framing. But he didn't _understand_. He stayed silent, not wanting to reveal the depth of his incomprehension. 

Bucky's eyes met Steve's, just for moment, and then slid back to Lisa. 

"I asked him not to tell anybody," Bucky said. "I was—well."

His hesitation was artful—both doctors clearly filling the gap with some sympathetic account, finally looking at him. Lisa was a kind woman, and her eyes were worried when they searched Bucky's face. 

Steve teetered between laughter and tears, the two impulses canceling out and leaving his face impassive. Even with whatever this secret was, with Bucky's relentlessly inscrutability, he was purposefully deflecting. He was presenting a united front. 

Feeling near hysterical, and brazen with it, Steve sat down next to Bucky and took his hand. It was warm and dry. 

"I was doing my best to be supportive, but I didn't know what to do," Steve said, in a successful attempt to draw their attention back. Bucky's hand twitched imperceptibly underneath his. 

"Well," Isobel said, after a pause. "This is new to us, too. But I'll figure it out." 

She looked back down at the tablet in her lap. From across Bucky's body, Steve could see that she was examining an ultrasound. Glancing back up, she began to speak once again. 

The door opened. 

"I'm sorry to interrupt," Nick Fury said. "But we need to talk to Mr. Barnes."

* * *

Steve considered insisting on going with Bucky and Fury, but he could read the glance that Bucky sent him easily enough. Fury made the effort to ask the doctors if there were any medical concerns with a debrief and Lisa, visibly looking to Steve and taking in his non-reaction, said there was not. 

When Bucky left, Steve had questions. It was delicate work, finding out information without revealing how little he already knew. Everyone seemed to be acting under the assumption that of course Steve had been told, of course he had been supporting Bucky through this. As Lisa explained the little they knew about the mechanics of the procedure Bucky had undergone, a highlight reel of Bucky's behavior over the last month went through Steve's head. His cravings for some food; his aversions to others. The significant amount of time he took in the shower and the way they always smelled of cleaning products afterward. The mint gum he always chewed. 

He should have known, perhaps. Should have realized that there was something up. But Steve had always thought of a pregnancy as a massive event, the sort of thing that could not be missed—he hadn't even considered it to be a risk for Bucky. He had been fine with the idea of a trans match, when asked, but the possibility had stayed theoretical; Bucky had been assigned a man at birth and had been one ever since--based on what the doctors were saying, that was still true. 

"Now that I can ask," Steve said, interrupting the digression Lisa and Isobel had gone on between themselves about the theoretical changes to Bucky's endocrine system, "What should we do? What needs to change?" 

"We'll want to see him regularly," Isobel said. "And get him some vitamins. But other than that, it seems like the surgeries have taken thoroughly. For all intents and purposes, that I can tell right now, this is a normal pregnancy. People have been doing those for a very long time." 

Steve nodded—seeing something in his face, Lisa cut in. 

"I'll get you some books that I liked when I was having Rachel." 

The easy familiarity of this made Steve's throat go tight. Lisa was a good doctor, and well chosen for her role—unflappable and kind. 

She knew better than directly to tell him that it was going to be OK, but the subtext was clear. Steve appreciated both the delicacy in communicating the message and the message itself. Steve, still rattled by the revelation, wasn't sure he understood the full ramifications of this news. He didn't know, that it just increased his sense of Bucky being somehow beyond him, drifting just out of reach.

The universe was committed to the idea of testing his conviction that all things could be born if one simply decided to bear them. Bucky must understand that quite well, he thought with a sudden burst of humor. Okay. This was what was happening. There was no use dwelling on things that couldn't change. 

"Thank you," he said, with a degree of finality that Lisa understood. She stood up with Steve. Isobel was a beat behind, much less familiar with Steve's habits. 

As he left the office, he sent Natasha a text asking for an update about the people who had taken Bucky. He needed to follow up on that—it was unclear if they knew about Bucky's condition, but it was a live possibility. 

She didn't reply, but the message was marked as read. She was working on it, then. 

Natasha wasn't going to buy that Steve knew this all along. But it certainly was a big clue for the still present mystery of Bucky—he was pregnant. There was a baby. But nobody was being clear about who had done the surgeries and they still didn't know who had used a key to Steve's home to kidnap his husband. 

Settled by the realization of the task in front of him, Steve went to find out what SHIELD already knew.

* * *

Nobody was giving him anything. 

Steve tried asking nicely, and then he tried giving orders. The analysts that handled the mountains of data flowing through SHIELD had nothing for him, and when he tried going up the chain, people stopped answering his phone calls about twenty minutes after he made the first one. 

His sense of purpose was slowly transforming into fury.'

Other methods having failed, he stood outside the door of Fury's office in Avenger's tower. Bucky was inside, but the soundproofing had been specially designed resist even super soldier ears—that hadn't bothered him until now. 

"No can do, Cap," Rumlow said. 

He had moved from his position on the chair next to the door to stand directly in front of it—leaning back insouciantly, but crystal clear in the implication that Steve would have to attack someone on his own team to get to Bucky. 

In his frustration, he was considering it. 

"Bucky just finished a medical examination after combat and capture. It's four AM. This is unnecessary." Steve's voice was as even as he could keep it. He didn't think of Rumlow as a particularly reasonable man, and he knew that if he pushed hard, Rumlow would push back harder. He knew the tendency well. 

"I'm not happy about being up, either," Rumlow said. "You don't have to be. Why don't you head home and warm up the bed for him?"

Steve grit his teeth. 

"I want to speak to my husband."

"Sorry." Rumlow didn't sound apologetic. "Marital rights don't work that way."

Normal law enforcement wouldn't have let Steve in, and SHIELD was the furthest thing from normal. Steve knew that. Even if he did have some sort of legal right to insist, punching his way through the door would have been far more effective than calling a lawyer. 

Steve's fists clenched. Rumlow smirked at him—and that, more than anything, really made Steve want to hit him. Rumlow wasn't under the illusion that he could take Steve in a fight—Steve had to think about not killing men like him in practice sparring, there'd be no chance in full combat. But Rumlow knew Steve wasn't going to do it, and Steve desperately wanted to prove him wrong. 

But—he wasn't going to do it. He was powerless in this moment, too. Steve felt his lips twist and he let himself glare as he met Rumlow's brown eyes. 

"Fine," he bit out. "Tell Fury I'm on his schedule first thing in the morning."

"Sure," Rumlow said, with a graciousness in victory that just galled Steve more. Steve went home.

* * *

The apartment, when returned, was still in the disarray they'd left it. Congealed food was resting on the kitchen counter and the charred remains of the pie Bucky had been baking was a reproving lump. 

Steve stood in his doorway, his encased shield in his hand—he was torn between a wild urge to trash the place even more and to clean it back to a habitable state.

Since Bucky had moved in, the place had been tidier than Steve ever managed. Bucky kept it neat with a military efficiency, and after a few initial attempts, had even found cleaning products that didn't sear Steve's nose. With his new knowledge, he wondered if Bucky's sense of smell was enhanced by the pregnancy. He hadn't said anything about how unpleasant the bleach was, but Bucky had moved to another product without a word. 

The memory of that decided Steve. He carefully hung the shield on its hook by the door and moved to put their life in order. The goal-directed activity felt good. He was doing something when he washed the cast-iron wok, dumping the by now disgusting vegetable down the garbage chute. He was making progress, as small as it was. 

There was something appropriate about this being the thing he could succeed in, after everything. He hadn't really needed to rescue Bucky; the man had killed his captors on his own. He hadn't been able to help treat his injuries, and now he couldn't battle the bureaucracy to let him come home in peace. His overgrown body and national import were useless. 

But two hands and the diligence to do a good job—his mom had taught him that. 

By the time the kitchen was clean, he had managed to stretch a thin veneer of calm over his roiling emotions. Morning noises were starting up outside their window—human voices, honking cars, the clatter of a cart setting up, and some stubborn birds. Their home was tidy and cool. It smelled nice once more, and the only trace of what had happened was the unfamiliar combat knife on the kitchen counter and an almost imperceptible hole where it has been lodged in the doorway. He could strive for stoicism, as hard as it was to keep ahold of himself. 

The knock at the door jolted all of that calm right out of him. Barely thinking, he grabbed that knife and eased his way to the peephole. 

Bucky, looking exhausted. Steve threw the door open. 

"I didn't have my key," he said. "Glad the doorman recognized me."

If it weren't for the dark bags underneath his eyes, the unfamiliar and slightly ill fitting clothes, everything could have been normal. Bucky sounded even, controlled. 

When he got fully into the room, he shut the door behind himself, locked it, and then leaned back against it, angling his body away from Steve. Steve abruptly realized he was standing too close, crowding Bucky. The barely perceptible way that Bucky's eyes flickered to the knife decided him. 

He backed all the way to the kitchen, pouring Bucky a glass of water, not looking at him. He set the knife back down on the counter. 

"You must be exhausted," he said. "Why don't you get what sleep you can? We can talk later."

There was a pregnant—ha—silence. 

When Steve turned back to Bucky, his face was blank. He took the water Steve handed him, but he didn't drink from it. 

"That's it?" His voice was distant. 

"You've been up all night. It doesn't seem like the time."

Steve struggled to soften the harsh frown he felt on his own face. There was enough tension in his jaw that it was starting to hurt, his powerful muscles ripping themselves into pieces in the absence of anything really to do. He was furious with Bucky, and terrified. He had enough clarity to recognize those competing emotions in his chest. But Bucky was exhausted. 

Bucky stared at him, still, and then laughed without any humor. 

"Okay, Steve. Sure. Whatever you say."

He walked past Steve into the kitchen. Steve's hands clenched into fists and he had to consciously relax them, spreading his fingers wide. 

"Do you want to fight?" he demanded, against his better judgment. 

"I want you to be honest for once," Bucky said. He put the glass of water down and pointedly picked up the knife as if it belonged to him. Steve guessed it did. 

The rush of anger made his skin hot. 

"That's fucking rich."

Bucky looked at him, then, for the first time. There was a gleam of something pleased in his face. 

"Oh yeah? You got something to say?"

Steve could see Bucky itching for this to come out, the way he was leaning forward ever so slightly on the balls of his feet. His anger tore him in two directions—he could yell at Bucky, or he could fold everything away, leave him frustrated. Most people would probably think Steve's habit would be toward confrontation, in situations like this, but it wasn't—he had only ever had two modes, attack or withdrawal, and he knew full well that both could be weapons. 

He opened the fridge, showing his back to Bucky and using the cool air on his face to calm his temper. 

"Go to sleep. You need rest in your condition." He intended it as a cruelty, as falsely sweet as his voice may sound. He looked up to smile, tight lipped, at him. There was warm twist in his stomach almost like pleasure when Bucky snarled back like he knew what Steve was doing. 

"I want to hear what you have to say."

Steve shut the fridge hard enough the whole massive appliance trembled. 

"I'm not really sure you have the high ground here, Bucky. Seems like there's an awful lot you've not been saying to me."

"Yeah? What do you think about it?"

Bucky was suddenly in his space, an arms length away. His face was tight and his shoulders were square—the scant inch or two between their heights overwhelmed by the force of his personality. 

Steve stepped into it, drawing himself up. 

"I think you've been lying to me since the moment you met me," Steve said. "I haven't decided why, but it's not looking good."

"What's your theory, Captain? What's my evil scheme?"

His title hurt more than he expected it to. "Fuck you," he said. "I've been nothing but good to you."

Bucky got even closer, right into Steve's face. His cheeks were flushed, making the sutures stand out starkly. 

"It's always about you," he said. "You've been good to me. I've been lying to _you_. You wanted a husband, so you went out and bought one. I could be a blow-up doll for all I matter here. I refuse to apologize for not wanting everything to become a prop for your—"

Steve wanted to scream, wanted to cry, wanted to hit him in that face he'd been starting to get so much comfort from. When he raised his hand, Bucky flinched and stopped talking—but Steve was just grabbing a handful of his own hair, feeling torn to pieces by how much this was affecting him. 

He pulled himself away, out of Bucky's air. That close, he could smell the salt of his sweat, the remnants of antiseptic and blood. He was so vividly aware of Bucky as a body, the fragile flesh of him. What had been done to him and what might have happened tonight. His chest ached with an unfamiliar despair—he should just yell back, defend himself. 

A few steps away, he let his head fall, covered his eyes with his other hand. 

"What do you want?" Steve's voice landed heavy in the silence. 

"Nice of you to finally—"

"Bucky, _please_. What do you want from me?"

Steve wished he would just answer. He wanted to tear out his liver and hand it to Bucky, if that's what he needed—he wanted to take Bucky's lungs and keep them for himself. He felt like a fool, and even that wasn't enough to overwhelm his anger. He wished he could let all of it go. He had thought they were building something. He had thought they'd been sharing a life, or the beginnings of one. 

When he looked up, all the aggression had drained out of Bucky's posture. He looked very small and his hand had flattened on his own belly, low. Steve jerked his eyes away from it, not wanting for search for a curve. 

"I— I don't have a lot of options. I didn't." 

He remembered Bucky saying that he was looking for choices. Bucky told him outright, but he hadn't understood. 

Steve didn't want to have this conversation anymore. He wanted to walk right out of this nice sturdy brick apartment. He could sleep on a bench in the park, or just keep walking. He wasn't sure there was anything here to stand and fight. 

"I understand," Steve said. He didn't, and he knew that. But he didn't want to hear Bucky reveal any more of Steve's delusions. He looked at Bucky, shoving down the pang he felt seeing his uncertain, almost frightened posture. "I'm going to go for a walk. Get some sleep."

Bucky didn't say anything when Steve left.

* * *

Steve walked. He tried not to think, and the city waking up around him made it easier. He considered stretching out his limbs, properly running, but he already felt enough like he was surrendering. 

His body was strung too tight, jittery with exhaustion and frustration, and his mind was worse. He couldn't settle on any thought long enough to work it through or come to any sort of conclusion. He didn't even know what his choices were, or if this was even a moment for a choice. 

The sun rose and warmed the top of his head. The streets were full of people and he gratefully listened to their contextless snippets of conversation, as disjointed as his thoughts. 

His phone rang and his heart rose in his throat, a stupid hope—but it was Lisa. 

"I hope I didn't wake you," she said. Steve said something vague in response, enough that she kept talking. "Bucky left the ultrasound prints as made for him. Do you want me to put them in your office?"

Steve hadn't forgotten about the pregnancy—the unsteady knowledge of it had not once left the forefront of his mind, in one guise or another—but it still hit him like a shock. 

"Please," he said. He hoped he sounded more normal than he felt. "I'm actually on my way in now."

He waved down a cab.

* * *

Lisa left the prints in an envelope, but Steve didn't open it. His heart beat rapidly, mouth dry—he printed a few other documents, considering the idea of reaching out to one of Tony's lawyers and rejecting it in the same moment. 

He wasn't any kind of expert, but he could put together a promise. 

The adrenaline of it carried him back home in flashes of disconnected imagery. He could stay awake for days, the serum giving him an inhuman endurance, but it felt like a late night after a long day, even in the sunshine. He maybe had come to some sort of conclusion, but the pair of envelopes in his hand didn't have any answers for him. Only one person could. 

The apartment was still when he let himself in. He pushed away the memories of the last time he'd come home to an empty room after storming out—it wasn't long ago, but it already had the well-polished feel of a stone he'd been turning in his hands for years. 

He knocked on the door to the bedroom, but he couldn't make himself wait for an invitation. 

When he opened the door, Bucky was struggling to push himself up. The blackout curtains were drawn incompletely, letting in a trickle of daylight. Bucky was wearing a t-shirt, rumpled with sleep, and his hair was in disarray, but the warm sleepiness in his expression slipped away when he met Steve's eyes. 

Steve kept his distance, holding himself stiffly, as he gently placed the pair of envelopes at the foot of the bed. 

"You have options," Steve said. That hadn't been how he meant to start., but he pushed past it. "Half of what's mine—or more than half, if you need it, but I really have a lot, it should be—"

He cut himself off and took a deep breath. "You can have access to any medical care that you need, now and until you don't want it anymore. We can keep you under protection. I'll find someone you can trust, help bodyguard you. You can keep the apartment and credit card, if you want them. If you don't, you can find something for yourself. You can have your own account. I wrote down everything I could think of, but if I'm missing something—you can add it. I'll sign whatever. If you want to talk to a lawyer—"

"Are you asking for a divorce?" Bucky sounded calm. When Steve glanced up at him, despite himself, his eyes were so blue behind the constructed shadows of the dim room. 

"I'm offering," Steve said. "I don't understand what you're running from, but I'm not so much of an idiot."

He sighed. "Or, at least I'm teachable. I'm offering you a choice. An option." 

He didn't want to look at Bucky, but Bucky had been teaching him all kinds of limits to his self-control. When their eyes met, Bucky was the one who looked away first. His face was drawn and he reached up to tuck a lock of his hair behind his ear. Steve still didn't know what that tell meant. 

"But are you asking?" Bucky didn't look at him. His hand fell to play with the hem of his own shirt, before moving to twist into the sheet—it was like he was stopping himself from holding his belly, protecting it. The tenderness that Steve felt nearly overwhelmed him. He closed his eyes. 

"No," Steve said. "Just offering." 

"Okay." 

Steve swallowed hard. "Okay. I can talk to a lawyer—"

"No, Steve. I mean—okay, as in acknowledgment. Not that I was making any kind of choice." 

There was something soft in Bucky's voice that Steve flinched away from. When he opened his eyes, Bucky was still except for his fingers, digging into the sheets. Some animal part of Steve wanted to crawl on top of him and entwine their bodies, but he ruthlessly suppressed the feelings. 

"You should look at the documents. Let me know what you decide." 

Steve didn't know if Bucky was going to say anything else, but he couldn't be in this room anymore. He left again, fleeing his own home yet again.

* * *

Money was a hell of a thing. It was easier than it should be to get another bed delivered to his apartment within a few hours. Steve camped out at a coffee shop near by until the delivery guys called his cell. 

He couldn't decide if this was cowardice or stubbornness. Maybe he should kick Bucky out of his apartment; maybe he should move into his quarters in the Tower. Neither felt tolerable. He wasn't sure he could bear curling up into a bed that smelled like his shampoo on Bucky's skin, but it felt equally impossible to leave all the way. 

He wasn't even sure if his reluctance was about Bucky himself. He had picked that apartment himself, furnished it himself—even if it was an electic mix of furniture he loved and things he bought when he lost his patience and just needed a couch as soon as possible, it was his home. 

He remembered the way he had insisted at the beginning that it was Bucky's home too, and swallowed down his bitterness. 

Sam called, but he let it go to voicemail. Steve wasn't sure he had any more words in him today. He basically spoke to the delivery people in grunts, meeting them at the door and taking the mattress from them instead of letting them do the carrying. 

He signed the delivery receipt, and receipt for a coffee and a bagel that one of the guys had in his pocket from breakfast. He tipped well. 

It was easy to carry the mattress himself, but hard to open the door. 

Bucky was on the couch when he got back into the apartment. His legs were pulled up and he was seated with his back to the arm, facing the door. He had his earbuds in. There was a moment, just a breath, where his eyes were still closed—head tipped forward, hair in front of his face. Steve froze, unsure—but soon enough, Bucky's relaxation fell away. He remained seated, looking up at Steve. 

His eyes flicked to the mattress in its box, but he didn't say anything. Steve forced himself to keep moving, passed Bucky, to the office. He unboxed it and watched it slowly inflate. It smelled of chemicals and looked rather sad alone on the floor. Steve had slept on worse.

* * *

Steve spent the rest of his day in his office. This was cowardice—he was perfectly clear about that. The silence in the apartment rested heavily on his shoulders. Bucky was fond of music, that had been clear over the last month. More often than not, Steve would come home to him playing something on the tinny speakers of his phone. 

He remembered that he had been planning on getting Bucky some sort of speaker, something that would sound richer in the open space of the living room—but he folded the thought away. 

The sound of the door opening and closing gave Steve a rush of alertness. He forced himself to wait a good ten minutes before emerging into the main space of the apartment. Bucky was gone, but he had left a note on the coffee table. 

_Natasha Romanov wants to speak with me,_ , it read. _I'll be back afterward._

Underneath the note was the two envelopes he had given Bucky. The one that was full of Steve's amateur divorce settlement had clearly been opened and read, but when Steve checked, nothing was signed. Bucky had left no mark on it. The seal on envelope that was labeled Rogers-Barnes in Lisa's scrawl was unbroken. Bucky hadn't looked. 

That was disquieting in a way Steve couldn't put his finger on, but nothing came to him. He left the envelopes and the note where Bucky had put them, and retreated back into the office.

* * *

Steve felt like the apartment air had the shakiness of air in lungs that were holding in breath too longer—he kept wanting to gasp, release everything in a rush. It was impossible. It wasn't just within him. The air between them vibrated, even when Bucky was in a different room. Even when Bucky was out. 

_I'm not sure it's your business yet,_ Natasha had said to him, when Steve asked in a moment of weakness. That cut, but it was in character. She never soft-pedaled with him. 

He tried to find gratitude for it, for her honesty—but it was hard to take. 

Steve spent a lot of time running. 

When he was in the apartment, he kept picking up his paints. He would get as far as picking out a palette, squeezing little dollops of phthalo blue and raw sienna onto a sheet of glass, but all he'd see was the variegated color of Bucky's irises and the near-red sheen his hair had in some light. He couldn't do it. 

He'd go for another run, try to overwhelm the bitterness in his mouth with sweat and city air. 

A few days into this, he came back home to his mattress in the office neatly made, with fresh sheets. He had been sleeping on the bare surface of it--he didn't own any sheets smaller than kingsize, or had thought he hadn't. There was an apple pie cooling on the kitchen counter, but Bucky wasn't anywhere to be seen. Steve's stomach lurched his chest, and he knew he couldn't bring himself to eat it—but it felt just as impossible to leave the offering untouched. 

He took a piece and set it on his desk. 

When he woke up in the morning, he had to chase flies away. He dumped it in the toilet, not sure what else to do.

* * *

Steve's eyes snapped open in the dark. He heard another's breathing, the almost imperceptible noise of a heartbeat. His body relaxed, recognizing it as Bucky sleeping beside him, before he woke up enough to realize why that didn't make sense. 

He sat up. Bucky was seated on the floor at the foot of the mattress, leaning with his back against the wall. One knee was pulled up, protecting his core. He was clearly awake, looking back at Steve. 

"Is this what you want?" Bucky said. 

Steve's head swam, struggling to keep ahold of what was happening. 

"What do you mean?" 

"Sleeping in separate bedrooms, not talking to each other. If this is what you want, you could just ask me for that divorce." 

Steve's self-restraint was still malleable from sleep, enough that his anger flared. 

"Stop pretending this is about me," he said. He scrubbed his hand over his face. "If you want a choice so badly, fucking make it. What does it matter what I want?" 

The silence after that lingered long enough that Steve considered laying back down and going back to sleep. 

"I love you." 

Steve couldn't breathe. The words hit him like a punch to the solar plexus, stealing all the air from his lungs. His body wanted to melt underneath them, go soft and warm—he wanted to reach out to Bucky, draw him close. But his mind rebelled. 

He stood up, looking down at Bucky. Bucky gazed up at him, with a calm that just wound Bucky up further. Why did he have to be so fucking controlled? How could Steve trust a single word out of him, when his face was so calm and his eyes so shadowed? 

"I normally trust my judgment of people's character," Steve said. "But I hadn't pegged you as cruel." 

He watched Bucky's body sway back and his eyes slip closed. 

"I can't apologize for everything," Bucky said. "I can't. I had to—I have to think about my priorities. I had to protect myself. But I did choose you, you know that. I picked you for a reason." 

"Yeah," Steve said. "I'm a good mark." 

Steve heard the wet sound of Bucky's swallow. His head dipped in a tiny nod—Steve wasn't sure if it was agreement, or just acknowledgment of the hit. 

"I was scared," Bucky said. "I am scared." 

Steve heard the truth of that—he wasn't so angry that it could overwhelm his basic knowledge of Bucky's fear. He'd known that before he even understood the half of it, could see it in the careful way Bucky held himself, the quick oscillations between reaching out and retreat. Part of him wanted to sink back to his knees and offer Bucky his arms—but he was scared, too. The depth of his own terror had been the thing he didn't realize soon enough.

"You don't need to play me to get protection," Steve said. "You really don't." 

"I know," Bucky said. His eyes opened, then. He looked up at Steve, met his gaze full on. His face wasn't open, not exactly, but he let see Steve how hard he was trying to be. "I trust you." 

Steve teetered on the precipice of fury. He normally thought of his life as a clean, clear timeline—one moment following after another, in a direction that he could wrap his head around. Even when things seem liked they radically changed around him, it typically had the solidity of a railroad switch moving a train from one track to another. Bucky had changed his life in many ways, which he had expected—not even Steve could expect to be the same person as a husband as he had been as a bachelor. But he'd not expected the divergence to reveal a chasm of uncertainty underneath even things he thought he understood about himself. 

Right now, he could lash out. He could hurt Bucky, he could rage. He could take the splinters that had been digging underneath his skin since that meeting in Natasha, when he had started to see the enormity of what he didn't know. He could make this a fight and fold everything vulnerable back into himself, behind the shield. 

But he didn't want to—the anger remained, but he didn't want to hide behind it. 

"I'm not sure I trust you," he said. The admission was raw; Steve wasn't sure he had ever admitted something like that. It could have been an attack, but he knew that Bucky would correctly hear it as weakness. 

Unexpectedly, Bucky smiled at him. 

"I know," he said. "Yeah—I know. Thank you. I'll work on it." 

At that, he pulled himself to his feet, supporting himself with his palm flat on the wall. Steve wanted to help even with the lingering reticence that Bucky had taught him over the last month. 

But. He wanted to—so he leaned in and met Bucky's eyes for a moment. Not seeing rejection, he rested his hands gently on Bucky's hips, pulling him the last bit of the way to his feet. Bucky's t-shirt was crumpled underneath his palms and he felt a warm patch of his skin underneath his palm. 

"Thank you," Bucky said. 

"Let me make you breakfast," Steve said. Bucky nodded, and didn't point out that it was the middle of the night.


	4. If I Didn't Care

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _If I didn't care, would it be the same?  
>  Would my every prayer begin and end with just your name?  
> And would I be sure that this is love beyond compare?  
> Would all this be true if I didn't care for you?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from a [song by The Ink Spots](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rvwfLe6sLis)

Bucky fell asleep on the couch with his plate of pancakes still in his lap. Neither of them had been up to sitting fully upright, not even with food—when Bucky had taken a seat in the cozy corner of the couch that had become his, Steve sat down next to him. 

Before the plate could tumble to the floor, Steve rescued it. He tried to move quietly, not wanting to disturb Bucky—but his eyes opened to slits, reacting to Steve's movement. Steve wanted to freeze, but he pushed past it. He set the plate on the coffee table. 

"Even before everything I couldn't sleep with other people in the room," Bucky said, his voice rasping with exhaustion.

Steve took it as a rebuke. "We can stick with the two rooms if—" 

He cut himself off when Bucky shook his head firmly, yawning. "I slept easier with you than I expected. I've missed it." 

At that, Steve realized it was an offering. He put his own plate on the table next to Bucky's and hesitated for a long moment before raising his arm and offering Bucky the space underneath it. 

Eyes still hooded with sleep, Bucky didn't move into Steve's embrace as much as let himself tip forward, landing face first on Steve's chest. Steve wrapped his arm around Bucky's body, cupping his whole shoulder in his hand. Bucky's arm hooked around Steve's waist. 

Steve put his feet up on the coffee table and settled in. They slept there until morning.

* * *

If Steve had been able to think about it—he hadn't, but if—he would have guessed that the first revelations about Bucky would be about what had happened to him to bring him to this point. How he had lost the arm, the story behind his prisoner of war medal, the surgery that lead to this unexpected pregnancy—the other father, even. Something weighty. Part of the grand narrative of his life. 

It wasn't like that at all.

"I used to have an imaginary friend," Bucky said. Steve was sitting at the kitchen table, his tablet in his hand. He'd realized that Bucky had gotten home from the store, but after a brief hello, he'd gone back to his reading. 

At this, though, he looked up. Bucky was putting the groceries away. The cut on his cheek was healed to a white, barely perceptible line—it had only been a few days. He healed quickly. Steve wasn't sure he understood what was happening, but he knew enough to put the tablet down, focus on the present. 

"Yeah?" 

“It's normal for kids to be imaginative," Bucky said. "My folks thought it was weird, but when they spoke to a counselor, she said it was normal. But my imaginary friend was persistent. I'd talk to him right up to enlisting, though I got better about hiding it." 

"What's his name?" Steve wasn't sure if that was the right question to ask, but he wanted to make clear that he was listening. 

"Eight." 

Steve blinked. 

Bucky shot him a small smile. "I made him up when I was six, and I thought being eight was the coolest thing in the world. That's my best theory, anyway. " He was cutting up an apple, and one out of three slices didn't make it to the plate. 

"By the time I was a teenager, I knew he wasn't real. I just liked having someone to talk to that I could trust, not have to play any games with. You can't try to impress your own head, you know?" 

Steve had spent most of his life trying to live up to standards inside his own head. 

"I never did anything like that," he said instead of disagreeing. "I think I was too stubborn."

Bucky finished fixing himself his snack, and he hopped on the counter to sit and eat it. He was at an angle to Steve, and Steve tried not to get distracted by the slight swell of his belly, more pronounced as it was when Bucky was seated. 

"In what way?" Bucky asked. 

"I was—well. I'd say I was self-sufficient. But thinking back, I think it is more correct that I just lost patience with other kids real quick." 

Bucky licked a droplet of apple juice off of his thumb, casual. "I wouldn't say you're impatient."

"I'm stubborn," Steve said. "It's a different thing than patient." 

"Not unrelated." 

Even though this conversation had started with an unexpected admission from Bucky, Steve felt compelled to keep revealing his own underbelly. Vulnerability was a heady feeling—freeing. 

"For me, it is. I wasn't very good at people," he said. "I'm still pretty bad about it. And at the first sign of someone being frustrated with me or not wanting to be my friend, I'd write them off." 

Steve struggled with what tense he should choose. His knowledge of this tendency in himself was old, and it had grown entwined with the tendency itself. His stubborness was woven through with knowledge about that stubborness, how it put people off and made his life more difficult. But: a foundational part of Steve was committed to the idea that you should give what you got, and nobody was as certain as Steve could be. Even now, with Bucky in front of him, it was hard to think about abandoning the old patterns entirely. 

Bucky looked thoughtful. "I don't think most people who knew me would have said I wrote people off. But I think I did. Nobody but my imaginary friend really got to hear about what I was thinking." 

The plate full of apples had already disappeared. Bucky was eating a lot more, even in the last few days. 

"Do you want me to make you a sandwich?" Steve asked, standing up. 

"Please," Bucky said. He didn't move while Steve worked, and he radiated heat as Steve stood at the counter next to him. 

Steve hopped up on the counter next to Bucky, and put the plate of sandwiches between them. He looked at his own hands, listening to the small noises of Bucky eating. This was nice—this was what he had imagined, when he first started thinking about taking a spouse. The easy sharing of space and food, knowledge of childhood and weird little facts. The reality of Bucky had made clear how inadequate that vision was, however. In the face of everything between them, this moment just left Steve with more questions. 

"Are you going to tell me about anything more recent?" He never had known how to leave well enough alone. 

There was a pause and then Bucky set the plate gently down. "No," he said. "Not yet." 

"I thought you trusted me," Steve said. He was unable to keep the flare of irritation entirely out of his tone. 

"That's not really an all or nothing thing," Bucky said. The gentle apologetic tone of moments before had vanished and Bucky carefully got off the counter. He picked up the plate and brought it to the sink. 

"But love is?" Steve asked. The anger he had felt when Bucky confessed his love came back, full force, and suddenly the easy intimacy of their lunch was ruined by Steve's overwhelming awareness of what was between them, and what maybe wasn't. 

Bucky was washing the dish. Steve never really used the dishwasher, and somewhere along the line Bucky had stopped using it too—of course, for Bucky, with his one arm, this was a much more laborious prospect. 

Steve wanted to storm up and put it in the appliance, but he restrained himself. 

"You're the one that told me love is a choice," Bucky said. "You're the one who asked me to make a choice." 

That felt like thin soup in this moment, like someone had stretched too little meat over too much water. He didn't want to be someone who Bucky loved as an act of will—he wanted it to be something that Bucky couldn't help but feel. The intensity of that emotion brought him up short, uncertain now in his old patterns. 

"I'm going to go talk to Natasha," Bucky said, again. Steve wanted to ask him more details, but he didn't. He needed the time with his thoughts.

* * *

Steve wanted to text Natasha and ask if it was his business yet. He wanted to text Sam and tell him he was right about everything, as usual. He couldn't bring himself to do either of those things—stubborn, he thought. This was the difference between stubborn and patient. 

Instead, he bought the book that Lisa had recommended, and then a few more besides. Normally he would have gone to a physical bookstore, enjoyed the feeling of the objects around him. For this, though, he bought them digitally. Somehow even the idea of ordering online and having physical books delivered felt too public. 

This pregnancy was a secret, even though he now knew about it. It was hidden away and private, concealed in the recesses of Bucky's body and the mystery of his past. Steve normally thought of a pregnancy as a communal affair, something that everyone had opinions about and that became everybody's business. But the child that was growing in Bucky seemed like it was Bucky's alone, and Steve felt almost intrusive reading about it. 

He read on the tablet that Bucky had largely appropriated, and in one last show of stubbornness, didn't make any effort to conceal these new ebooks among the others.

* * *

"How far along are you?" 

Bucky looked at Steve, startled. Steve hadn't intended to ambush him on his way in the door, but there was too much information here for Steve to be able to filter it without more context. 

"Can I not ask that?" Steve said when Bucky didn't answer right away. He didn't want to be sarcastic, but he couldn't entirely keep it from his tone. 

Something challenging flickered across Bucky's face. "19 weeks." 

Steve was surprised first by getting an answer at all—he had expected Bucky to ignore him, like he had ignored most personal questions, and he wasn't sure why actually revealing something would spark that stubborn set to his jaw. The answer itself was surprising—that was much longer than he'd expected. They had only been married for about five weeks. 

His gaze fell to Bucky's middle—he didn't see any pronounced bump, not with Bucky standing up, wearing a shirt. He had a broad frame and he was nearly as tall as Steve. The amount of weight that a normal pregnancy added at this point wouldn't be perceptible on his bulk. 

"My eyes are up here," Bucky said. 

"I'm not looking at your eyes." 

Bucky's snort of laughter was unexpected, and it was enough for Steve to look him in the eye, despite his denial. Bucky quirked his eyebrow, silently commenting on the hypocrisy. 

"My theory is that nobody expects a man to have a baby bump," Bucky said. "I can tell. But you didn't suspect anything and nobody stares at me walking down the street." 

"Are you going to see the doctors again?" Steve asked. That was something the books were unanimous on—pregnancies in this century seemed to require more supervision than Steve was used to. In this context, he thought it made sense to follow those guidelines.

Bucky frowned. He bit his lip, sucking it into his mouth in an obvious moment of consideration, but after a moment he just shook his head. He didn't offer any explanation. 

"You know they're going to be on my case," Steve said. Bucky shrugged and made his way further into the apartment, passing Steve on the couch. Steve couldn't help himself—he snagged Bucky's wrist. He wasn't willing to drag Bucky to a stop, but Bucky complied with the light pressure and paused. "You said you trust me. I trust them. Whatever you want, they can help you with." 

The thought occurred to Steve, and when it did, he felt like a fool. "Even if you don't want to be pregnant anymore—"

Bucky's face drained of color and his eyes widened, in a startlingly intense reaction for him. He shook his head in a sharp movement. 

"No," he said. He reclaimed his hand for Steve's grip and flattened his palm over his belly, protective. "No—I want. It's non-negotiable." 

"You don't have to negotiate it at all," Steve said, just as fierce as Bucky. "It's all you. What you want. I just wanted to make sure." 

"I want," Bucky said. His voice was rough, and he looked away like he couldn't take Steve's scrutiny. "I've never doubted that for a moment." 

That line had a weight that Steve couldn't understand, but he had already done a lot of pushing. Steve nodded, feeling the need to acknowledge that he heard Bucky, but before he could find any more words, Bucky fled to the bedroom.

Steve gave Bucky space for the rest of the evening. He had more reading to do, and he wasn't sure how to wrangle his own unruly emotions, much less Bucky's. Bucky had a way of making him feel outside of his head, irrational in a way that he wasn't used to. It wasn't what he had used to think affection would feel like. There was no quiet, unshakable certainty in it—instead, he felt vividly aware of Bucky's inscrutability, the whole and complete person behind his eyes, that Steve couldn't entirely understand. It entranced him, but he didn't feel like he understood and he wasn't sure he ever would. It felt dangerous.

* * *

The cocoon of their apartment couldn't last forever. Soon enough, Steve had to go back into work. 

When he left the first morning, he felt a strange anxiety on his way out the door. He gently touched the indentation where the knife had lodged in the doorframe, remembering what it had looked like to find it. 

"Natasha's bug isn't back," Bucky said. "But I had her put a chip underneath my arm. Only she has access to the data, it doesn't even go through SHIELD servers. But, you'll be able to find me if they try again." 

Steve's eyebrows rose. That level of voluntary surveillance seemed inconsistent with Steve's inchoate nervousness. He turned around, his keys in hand, and looked at Bucky. "I don't need that." 

Bucky stared straight back at him. "It's not for you. Except that I have the expectation that you come find me as quickly as possible. If they try again." 

Steve felt his frown deepen. "You think they're going to try again." 

"I was a very valuable asset," Bucky said. "Downright irreplaceable." 

There were hundreds of questions Steve wanted to ask, all bunched up together underneath his tongue. He didn't dare, now. Especially since he really did have to go, and picking a fight first thing in the morning didn't seem like the best plan, at least not when you didn't have time to resolve it. He settled for one, hoping it would be enough to assuage his worry. "Is that what you've been talking to Natasha about?"

Bucky inclined his head—not quite a yes, not quite a no. "I'd appreciate if you could check out more weapons for me today. I know you don't like guns, but we can't all have your fancy shield." 

"Easier than flowers," Steve said. Bucky grinned like he hadn't been expecting the joke—that was a nice thing for Steve to take with him.

* * *

Steve brought home a carefully packed crate of small arms that day. A few days later, he had a bouquet of coral dahlias, selected for their beautiful color and lack of smell. It was only the second time he'd ever brought flowers for Bucky, and he was curious about the response. Last time, Bucky had scarcely commented on them—he wasn't even sure they were something he would like. 

He hesitated outside his front door, considering. It was possible a gift like this wasn't a genuinely considerate thing, aimed toward an idealized version of a husband rather than the one he had. Maybe he should throw them out, come up with a more well-suited gift. 

It was a strange flashback to the early days of their marriage—he had spent a lot of time standing in front of his door, wondering what their interactions would be like if he walked in. He realized that it was, by anyone's standard, _still_ early days. 

Bucky opened the door and smirked at him. "Are we back to this?" 

Steve smiled—he liked the fact that the two of them were on the same page, even if it was mildly at his own expense. He handed Bucky the dahlias. It was a big bouquet, enough that Bucky cradled it in his arm to avoid crushing it. Steve went to get a vase. 

"I like chocolate," Bucky said. "If you feel the need to get an apologetic present, food is a good bet. Especially nowadays." 

"They don't sell particularly good chocolate at the subway station," Steve said. He took the flowers back from Bucky and arranged them in the vase. Bucky cocked his hip and settled in next to him, watching him fuss. 

"Did I say anything about _good_ chocolate? No, no I did not." 

"I guess I already knew you weren't picky." Steve softened the jab with a smile—it was light-heartedly meant, after all. 

Bucky seemed startled by his own laughter, but he immediately shook his head. "Steve, if you're referring to our marriage, that's the opposite of true. I had been shadowing you for weeks before I had the idea to ingratiate myself with Monica." 

Steve's hands paused for a moment, before he went back to clipping the bottom of the stems one by one. "Oh yeah?" 

Instead of taking the bait, Bucky just leaned in and bussed Steve's cheek with a simple chaste kiss. Steve froze, electricity emanating out from the small point of contact. Bucky stayed in Steve's space when he pulled away. "Yeah," he said. "I had figured out quickly that you were the best bet to help me. But I was frightened." 

Steve was very, very still. He felt a little like a hiker who had just been startled by a bear, rearing up in the middle of the trail-—but instead of snarling, the bear wore a daisy tucked behind its ear. "You gonna tell me about what you were scared of, yet?" 

Bucky shook his head, but he kept talking. "I never thought you'd hurt me. I didn't know much about you, not really—but I knew you'd do right by me." 

"Part of me feels like you're saying that you bought into a century of propaganda." Steve was perhaps the only man alive who got more suspicious the more somebody praised his goodness. There was a country of people out there who were certain that Steve Rogers was a good man, even if there was widespread debate about what exactly that meant. He wanted to know what Bucky meant. 

"Probably that was involved. It's hard to shake what you were taught as a kid," Bucky said. "But, if I'm being honest, I started watching you because I thought you were a bad guy and I wanted to expose it. It didn't take me long to determine that you weren't involved." 

There was a wealth of implications there that Steve didn't understand. He knew that he should focused on ferreting out political implications—who the bad guys were, for instance. What Bucky knew that Steve was still blind to. But, he was stuck on what this meant about Bucky's evaluation of Steve, the man. He wanted to hear Bucky's detailed narration of their life together, what this all felt like to him. He wanted nothing more than to see himself the way Bucky saw him, warts and all—it felt like information he couldn't pass up. "What made you think I was trustworthy?"

"Your honesty," Bucky said. "To a fault, sometimes. I'll admit, I had you bugged to hell and back. I was reading your email, listening to your phone calls. I heard every conversation you had with Monica and looked at all the dossiers with you. You were almost punishingly straightforward about what you wanted, and why you were looking for a husband. All of that—well. It was hard to imagine that you had an evil scheme, if this was the sort of man you were looking for. You didn't conceal things from them, or when we met, from me."

"You didn't seem sure," Steve said. "You asked me if I was going to murder you." 

Bucky smiled like that was a fond memory—Steve couldn't bring himself to that level of lightheartedness. He still didn't know how he felt about any of this. In one sense, it felt a little like Bucky was confessing a level of manipulation that he hadn't suspected. In another, there was something reassuring about the idea that Bucky had methodically considered his options and decided that this was the route he wanted to take. That was what Steve had done, even if the data he had been acting under was a little different. 

"Well, you never really can know people," Bucky said. "Maybe I was wrong. You scared me in a different way, with how seriously you took this, and how little it seemed like you protected yourself. I didn't realize then how little you cared about your money." 

Steve felt frozen by all this, not sure how to take it. Bucky watched him with something like indulgence on his face, like Steve's silence was an expected response to his revelations. Steve was in the habit of quiet, in any form of uncertainty. Bucky wasn't wrong to say that he generally tried to be honest, generally tried not to dissemble or tell lies. One of the things that meant, though, was that he was typically silent when he was unsure. 

Bucky kissed him on the cheek again, his breath smelling like mint, and then left to go take his increasingly typical afternoon nap. It was only after he was already asleep that Steve realized he forgot to ask him the question that had prompted the purchase of apology flowers.

Steve didn't find a time to ask him. He was deflected by how easy their time together was—the smile Bucky gave him when he emerged to dinner already cooked, the conversation which didn't hit on anything intense. Steve enjoyed the swell of intimacy and didn't want to put any ripples in it by pushing Bucky for more self-disclosure—this was not an unfamiliar feeling, but now the reticence felt a little bit more sincere. He knew enough to know what he was pushing for, and enough of the shape of things to understand why Bucky might want to let it lie. 

Before Steve had a chance to work up the courage, he was called into Avenger's Tower. 

"It might be nothing," Sam said. "But it's certainly a loud enough nothing that we should take a look." 

Steve watched Bucky on the couch in the other room. The television illuminated his face with vague flashes of color—it was impossible to discern what he was watching, only that he was in the middle of something. Steve didn't want to leave, but he didn't have any reason to demand that. 

"Sure," Steve said. This time, he didn't object to Tony picking him up on the helicopter pad.

* * *

* * *

Steve held the folder full of paper in his hand and felt a little like he was being gifted an archaic artifact. He half-expected to have Tony hand him a shard of pottery, next—both seemed equally out of character. Usually Steve had to sweet talk one of the assistants into printing things out for him. 

"Don't look at me like that, blame Romanov." 

"Of all people, you should be aware of the dangers of having some types of information online, Tony." 

"This file is literally fifty years old—"

Steve ignored them. He glanced at Sam, who was frowning at the documents. 

"Any conclusions on if this is something or nothing?" he asked. 

"You ever hear of Operation Paperclip?" Sam said. 

Steve shook his head. Sam nudged the file in Steve's hands and he took the hint. After reading it, part of him—the cowardly part he didn't like to acknowledge—wished he had skipped it. It was hard to take, this knowledge. That the government he had died trying to save had taken in Nazis and HYDRA scientists, giving them a home and resources for their research. It squared with Steve's general view of those who were capable of obtaining that type of power, but it wasn't easy to look at. America was no different than any other country in its willingness to overlook evil for a benefit, real or promised—in fact, as he knew full well, it was worse than many. 

He rubbed his chest, reflexively. The image of the star that he usually wore felt like a brand—but all that he actually touched was a light cotton t-shirt. 

"So, that was a depressing history lesson," Sam said after a moment, when they'd all perused the files and were seated at the conference table. "Why now?" 

Natasha paused. The image of it echoed in Steve's mind, and he sat up straight. "The gun. You think that this has something to do with the Nazi gun." 

Her lips quirked in a half-smile. "Maybe it just explains why the guns are still in circulation, if the US took some of the weapons and scientists instead of burning it all down. But it's an interesting thing, to have it in the hands of a terrorist group—even if the Feds have been thrifty with what they've saved and reused, we should be seeing SHIELD or the CIA with those guns, not Boko Haram." 

"Have you spoken to Fury?" Steve asked. 

Natasha hesitated for long enough that his stomach went cold. When she spoke, her words were very careful. "Some of the things that Barnes has revealed to me are concerning on that front."

That got everybody's attention. Tony leaned forward and Sam leaned back. Steve sucked in a quick breath. Natasha's gaze glancingly met Steve's, before she looked back down at the papers in front of her. 

"There's some indication that this may not be such ancient history after all. But either he doesn't know enough to clarify further, or he doesn't trust me yet."

* * *

Natasha remained reticent, to an extent where Steve wasn't able to discern exactly how much _she_ knew. It didn't really matter. Instead of joining in the rest of the team in their attempt to figure out what information she'd been given, precisely, or trying to poke holes in what was still so amorphous that it couldn't even become a theory, Steve hung back. He'd gotten used to seeing the shape of important things before ever seeing their detail, and this was manifestly important. He wanted to know the answers here, felt like even more than most, he deserved to know. Bucky was his husband, and Steve died to destroy HYDRA. Either one of those on their own would be enough for Steve to demand a full accounting of what was happening. He could shake down Natasha for every scrap, or storm home and demand the full story from Bucky—neither felt right. 

Steve, by now, realized that the disclosure of Bucky's secrets could either bring them together or drive them apart. It could be the thing where the trust Bucky claimed was actualized and reciprocated, or it could set a tone of combativeness between them. Their relationship was at a tipping point, and no amount of sheer willpower on Steve's part would be able to push it toward love. He had to cultivate it, not demand it—that was clear. But it was an unsteady place to land. 

"Why now?" Steve asked, cutting into a discussion he had stopped following particularly closely. "Why is this important now?"

At this, Natasha looked cagey. "Something feels like it is coming. I'm not sure what, but we are going to have to deal with this soon—too many pieces are showing up, too much information is making an appearance. Either this is nothing, or whoever is behind all this will have to make quite the move." 

"But you have no specific information?"

"No," she said. She studied him, her eyes flickering over his face. "You can leave if you want." 

If anyone was able to understand the importance of secrets, it would be Natasha—and she had already told him that he shouldn't learn it from her. 

Steve nodded, and gathered his things. He slid the file over to her, assuming that she had some sort of containment procedure that she preferred. She stopped the movement with a small hand. 

"Thanks, Nat," she said. 

"Can I be dismissed, too?" Tony whined. Nat sent him a withering glare as Steve took his leave.

* * *

It was late when Steve got home. He had missed any chance after dinner to speak with Bucky, about these new revelations or his previous plans. But it wasn't unusual to have things lingering between them. 

When he got home, though, the bed was empty. It was rumpled—clearly Bucky had slept there, but the covers were thrown back and when Steve rested his hand on the sheets, they were cool. Steve's heart pounded, his muscles tensing up. His eyes swept the dim light of his bedroom, dreading the things he might find—the same orange plastic from the sedative filled syringe. Blood, or weapons. But there was nothing. 

Rapidly calculating what his next move should be—contact Natasha for Bucky's location, scramble reinforcements—he almost missed the wet gasp from the bathroom. 

He nearly fell over himself in his rush to throw open the door. 

Bucky was crouched in the corner of the tub, curled up into himself. It was dark, and most of his hair was down around his face—Steve could see the elastic he usually used to tie it back tangled in the thicket, like he had tossed and turned enough for the hair to work itself free. In the shadow, Steve couldn't see the details of Bucky's body, but his counters were protective, pained. Steve smelled the mineral tang of fresh blood on the air. 

Steve dropped into a crouch, getting his eyes level with Bucky's—even in the dark, he could see that they were white rimmed, and his mouth was open. He was afraid. Steve tried to soften his voice as he spoke, but there was only so much he could do. "Are the hostiles gone?" 

Unexpectedly, Bucky dropped his head and laughed—it didn't sound like he found anything particularly funny. "Long gone. Months gone."

"You're gonna have to be clear with me," Steve said. "You know I'm not very good at innuendo." 

"Sorry," Bucky said. He shuddered, hard, and then went very still, like he was holding his component parts together out of nothing but will. "No hostiles. Never were hostiles." 

Steve nodded, and crept closer, walking slowly on his knees. Bucky was already so tense that it was impossible to tell if he found that upsetting, so Steve just took the approach slowly. He was unsurprised that this was not the result of combat injuries, and no part of his attention wavered. This may not have been caused by an outside force, but Bucky's hurt was very real. 

"Can you tell me what's wrong?" he asked. He was right by the edge of the tub, an arms length away from Bucky. Bucky hadn't pushed himself further into the corner, hadn't scrabbled up the walls. But Steve wasn't going to take the absence of flight as an invitation. 

Bucky chewed his lip, but his voice was almost monotone when he spoke. "I'm cramping. And bleeding a little bit. The cramps are bad." Matter of fact. Enough that it took Steve a moment to put the pieces together. 

"Do you think—" He wasn't sure he couldn't finish the sentence. He knew very little of the story behind the child Bucky carried, but he knew one thing for certain: it was wanted. Bucky wanted that baby. In the dim light of the bathroom, that wanting echoed as loudly as his ragged breath. 

"How badly are you bleeding?" he asked. "Have you called Lisa?" 

It took Bucky a long moment to speak. "Not bleeding so bad. But—it's definitely blood. That hasn't happened for awhile." 

He didn't answer about Lisa, which Steve took as a no. 

"The books say at this stage, there would be a lot of blood. You'd be soaking in it. It's probably not—the baby's probably fine. This late, it's unlikely, but—I'm not a doctor. Can I call Lisa?" The tone in Steve's voice was unfamiliar to him. He wasn't used to speaking so carefully without an attempt to dissemble—he wasn't used to this gentleness. It felt like breaking the news that a soldier was MIA to the rest of the men, something that acknowledged the danger of the project that they shared, but it wasn't that at all. 

Bucky was barely breathing. Steve could see the aftereffects of the cramps in the rhythm of stillness in his body—he wasn't wracked with pain, he was paralyzed with it. 

Steve climbed into the tub with him, and looked down—there was a smear of blood, but barely anything—just enough to leave an ominous splotch between Bucky's legs. Given the dark heather of Bucky's sweatpants, the stain wasn't even visible. That was reassuring. Bucky didn't move away. 

"Unless you tell me not to, I'm going to call the doctors, okay? I'm going to tell them to come here."

It was likely inconvenient for everybody to transport whatever equipment needed out to Brooklyn, but Steve wasn't sure if he could get Bucky to move without picking him up and carrying him—and he wouldn't do that. The baby was wanted, and Steve wouldn't want the baby to die, but it was ultimately Bucky that had to make this choice. 

Instead of refusing, Bucky nodded and Steve sighed out relief. Without moving, he called Lisa and briefly outlined the situation. Her voice sharpened out of sleep near instantly, and she asked the same questions Steve had. 

She wouldn't verbally reassure, not without her own examination, but Steve heard the relaxation when he described how much blood he saw. She promised that they'd be there soon, and Steve hung up. 

"I used to pray that the baby would die." 

Steve's hand clenched so hard around the metal of his phone that he heard it creak. 

"I'm not really the praying type—even deep in the shit, I'd curse more than pray. But when they had me, and when I knew that the pregnancy took this time, I wanted it to die. I didn't want them to have it." 

Bucky's head was bowed and he was speaking into his own chest, but the noised bounced off the tile walls. It wasn't loud enough to properly echo, but Steve heard every syllable harshly, with impact. 

"I knew I was pregnant as fast as it was possible to know—they kept such a close eye on my hormones. I got used to the blood tests. They didn't outright tell me it was positive, but mostly they didn't bother to lie to me. I was just the broodmare, and they weren't scared of me. So I knew enough to hope that I wouldn't have to bring a child into that world." 

"But—" Bucky took a shuddering breath and then let it out hard. It was enough that Steve could feel the movement of air against his own skin. He was close to Bucky now, only inches away, on his knees and leaning forward. Bucky looked up and met Steve's eyes—now Steve was close enough that he could see the suggestion of color, even in the darkness. The red around Bucky's rims, the blue of his irises. "But, when I started vomiting—of all things, right? When I started vomiting, I knew I couldn't want that anymore." 

He shifted and resumed his familiar pose, moving his arm from where it was wrapped around his middle and cupping the almost imperceptible swell of his belly. 

"I had been remade any number of times, and people rarely asked me if I wanted the shaping. But nobody asked the baby, either. We were making each other. And I couldn't want the baby gone anymore than I'd ever managed to want to off myself—and despite everything, they never got me to that point."

"It's not over yet," Steve said. "It's too soon to mourn." 

"I'm not mourning," Bucky said, but Steve wasn't sure that was true, given the look in his eyes. "I'm not. I'm just telling you. I want this. I chose it, even." 

"Thank you for telling me," Steve said. It felt pathetic—entirely inadequate for this hushed room, with the smell of blood and the traces of their shampoo from Bucky's shower earlier underneath it. But he meant it—gratitude was maybe not the right emotion, but it was the one he felt. 

Bucky nodded like he understood and let his head fall further, resting on Steve's shoulder. Steve brought his hand up and gently started detangling his hair while they waited.

* * *

Bucky was eerily compliant when Lisa and Isobel arrived, carting a bunch of equipment behind them. He answered their questions promptly and with as much detail as he had; when they asked him to take off his pants and go into the other room, he started to strip without any regard for his privacy, or concern for the fact that Steve was there. 

Steve, who had never seen Bucky naked. Bucky had been diligent about that. 

"Bucky," he asked, his voice sharper than was perhaps necessary, but he felt a level of urgency he couldn't fully explain. Bucky paused with his thumbs hooked in the waistband of his sweatpants. The light in the bathroom was on, now, and Steve was still seated in front of Bucky—he could clearly see the stain of blood, and the gentle swell of growing from this angle. It seemed bigger than it had a few days ago, like the enormity of this event had physical mass inside of him. Bucky's eyes were the thing that really caught Steve, however—they were wide, distant. "Do you want me to stay? What would be better for you, stay or go?"

Bucky blinked at Steve, visibly struggling to focus. Steve tried to keep his breathing relax and his muscles soft. When Bucky swayed a little bit on his feet, he reached out to steady his thighs. The warm flesh of him underneath Steve's palms was reassuring; he was here, in front of Steve, even if his mind was not entirely with it. 

"I'll help you into the bedroom," Steve decided. "But I'm going to stay just outside the door. You can call me in if you want me." 

Bucky nodded. Steve stood, hooking one of his arms around Bucky's waist and helped him out of the tub. Lisa and Isobel had given them space, but Steve could see their eyes were concerned. 

When he got Bucky down on the bed, he leaned in and kissed his cheek—a mirror to what Bucky had done earlier in the day. It was the only way he felt like it was possible. 

"I'll stand watch," Steve said. But before Steve could go, Bucky reached out and grabbed Steve's shoulder, his thumb digging in almost brutally into Steve's muscle. 

"I want you to stay," he said. He glanced at the door, furtive. "If they'll—" And then he broke off, shook his head slightly. "Please stay." 

Steve nodded and went to grab a chair, but Bucky's grip only tightened, shifting to the back of Steve's neck. Following his lead, the way that Bucky was drawing him in, he climbed up on the bed next to him. When Bucky wriggled out of his pants, Steve had an excellent angle of him—he could see the faint hair at his navel, and the flow of it down to his soft cock. The line of it curved around the bump, visibly convex, visibly new. Down further between Bucky's legs were streaks of blood on his legs and then, barely visible, the slit of a vulva, nestled underneath his dick. 

"I wasn't born with that," Bucky said, into the silence. His voice was more alert, as if he had realized what he was revealing. Steve was relieved to note that his face was even, calm—he didn't seem upset, at least not about this. 

"Given the givens, it's not that much of a surprise," Steve said. Bucky's face twitched into something that would be in a better moment a smile. Steve reached out and squeezed his hand, shifting so that his own bulk could better curl around Bucky's. "Let's get them in here?" 

At Bucky's nod, Steve called the doctors in. Steve was only aware of their activities in his peripheral vision—the smear of ultrasound gel on Bucky's belly, and, more invasive, the speculum they inserted inside of him. The information they were looking for was important, but Steve was helpless to look away from Bucky himself. He followed their movements in the minute twitches of Bucky's forehead, and the way he shifted reflexively at the first insertion, the shiver of cold at the initial touch. He was grateful for this inattention, because he saw the transcendent relief on Bucky's face when Isobel finally declared that Bucky wasn't miscarrying. 

After thanking them, Bucky slumped, visibly exhausted. But with the good news, he was more assertive. 

"Could you let yourselves out?" he asked, smiling a little. "I'm grateful, but—"

"You should sleep," Lisa agreed, already cleaning up. "You did the right thing, having Steve call. And I know these moments can be beyond frightening. Take a well-deserved rest." 

Bucky leaned back on the pillows—half-dressed and still streaked with blood, and sketched a lazy salute. 

They disappeared quickly, leaving Bucky and Steve alone. 

"You were right," Bucky said. "Too soon to mourn." 

Steve ignored him. He didn't deserve any credit for that—and more importantly, Bucky didn't deserve a single moment of blame. 

"I'm going to get some stuff to clean you up so you can pass out more comfortably," Steve said, easing himself off the bed. "Do you want anything else." 

Bucky studied Steve thoughtfully. Steve didn't realize this was such a difficult question. "I could really use some water," he said. And Steve was happy to comply. 

By the time Steve gathered some warm washcloths, the requested water, and a candy bar for good measure, Bucky was clearly more than halfway asleep. He hesitated, a few steps away from the bed to avoid looming over him, but the red was stark enough against Bucky's pale thighs that it stirred him into action. 

He got on his knees next to the bed and gently leaned in. "Bucky," he whispered. "Open your eyes." 

Bucky blinked slowly—from this angle, Steve could see how long his eyelashes were. 

"Can I clean you up?" 

At that, Bucky frowned ever so slightly. "You already said that. Please, but I don't have to be awake for it." 

Steve smiled at him, helplessly watching his face slacken once more into sleep. He tested the cloth on his own inner wrist, just to make sure the temperature was neither too hot nor too cold. And then, appropriateness confirmed, he was excruciatingly careful as he pressed it to Bucky's inner thigh. At the first touch, Bucky's eyes cracked open, just enough that Steve could see the gleam—but once he identified Steve, he sighed and let his head fall back. Steve's heart pounded, and an inappropriate heat built in his stomach. 

If it weren't for the blood, Steve might have had a bigger problem, but the blood was impossible to ignore—Bucky had been bleeding, scared, in pain, and alone. The memory was enough to keep him centered and diligent, cleaning his skin from the traces—some were fresh, and some were old enough that they were flaking. The doctors had warned them that Bucky might bleed a little longer after the internal exam. 

Steve realized that the boxers he grabbed wouldn't keep Bucky clean by themselves, but he didn't want to leave Bucky again. After his skin was totally clear of the evidence of this evening, Steve pulled his shirt off and carefully wrapped it up, tucking it between Bucky's thighs before pulling his boxers and sweatpants over them. 

Leaning back, Steve washed his hands with one of the cloths and let himself just breath, settling his racing heart and trying to banish the flush in his own cheeks. At least he didn't have any witnesses—Bucky was dead asleep. He set the bottle of water on the nightstand near Bucky's face, and climbed onto the bed behind him. 

Steve was certain he wasn't going to be able to sleep, too focused on the warm shape of Bucky breathing next to him—but he managed soon enough.

* * *

Steve woke with the knowledge that Bucky was next to him on the bed, and the suspicion that he was being watched. He knew that Bucky was there before his sleeping brain was able to consciously assess the evidence—it was a fact, impossible to question, that Bucky was next to him, and only then did he fill in the slight indentation to the mattress, the heartbeat, the smell of another body. 

"Good morning," Bucky said, before Steve even opened his eyes. His voice was rough with sleep. Steve eagerly blinked open into the light, and enjoyed the sight of him curled toward Steve, his hair tangled on the pillow and his voice soft. 

"How are you feeling?" 

"Sore, but fine," Bucky said. He searched Steve's face for a long moment—Steve tried to project reassurance, or whatever it was that Bucky was looking for. "Embarrassed, also. If I'm being honest." 

Steve was genuinely startled—enough that it shifted some of the morning languor out of his limbs, and he started pulling itself up. Bucky frowned hard, and moved his torso like he was thinking about reaching—but his arm was underneath his body. Steve froze, sinking back down. 

"I want to have this conversation like lovers," Bucky said, bluntly. "I want that more than I want any speeches."

He sounded rueful, but it was enough that Steve reached for him, gently hooking his arm around Bucky's waist. Bucky startled, but just for a moment—when he realized what Steve was doing, he laughed under his breath and pushed his forehead into Steve's bare shoulder. The wet feeling of his breath was enough that Steve was starting to be concerned about his own embarrassment in this conversation. 

"Better?" Steve asked, and Bucky nodded again, tucking himself entirely under Steve's arm. "Now you get to tell me what idiot idea has got you feeling embarrassed." 

"It's been such a rollercoaster with you. Sometimes you're so polite I think you want to be my butler, and then you come out with stuff like that."

"Maybe I was on my best behavior," Steve said, holding Bucky tighter. Part of him wanted to catalogue every small sensation in this moment, but it was easy to push it away—he was more focused on what Bucky wanted to say, about what was going to happen next. "Stop deflecting." 

"I like you better when you tell me what you're thinking," Bucky said, but he didn't continue. 

"This is an ironic line of compliment given—"

"Okay," Bucky said. Steve felt the deep breath he took in the whole barrel of his chest, swelling him up and then deflating. He was grateful to feel that he still felt calm. "You saw me very vulnerable last night. You saw parts of me that, well—no non-medical professional or enemy operative has ever seen. And worse than that, I was—" He broke off, but it didn't sound like he genuinely was at a loss for words. It sounded more like he didn't want to put an adjective to his emotions. 

"Scared," Steve said, softly. "You were scared. And you told me that ages ago. I think it was the first thing you told me about yourself, really—that you're scared." 

Steve counted Bucky's breaths. One, two, three—"Pathetic." 

" _Rational._ " Steve gently shook him. "Don't be absurd." 

One, two, three, four, and then the soft press of lips against his skin, only really perceptible because of Steve's lazer focus on Bucky. 

"Thank you for getting me to call," Bucky said. 

"I'm only sorry I didn't speak to you sooner, that was—"

"Ahh, the flowers. I was wondering what you were trying to butter me up for." 

Bucky pulled away, gently. He rubbed his cheek against Steve's chest before he went, the faint rasp of his morning stubble sending shivers underneath Steve's skin. Steve watched Bucky pull himself to his feet, drinking in the way his muscles unfolded through sleep and soreness. He wanted to ask Bucky if that was it, if Bucky really had nothing else to say. 

"You know I'm grateful," he said. "I feel honored you let me help you." 

Bucky stretched, his back to Steve. There was only a subtle hitch in his movement. 

"It's been a long time since I had the option of help," Bucky said. "I was in captivity for four years. The first and last years, I was entirely under the sway of the doctors, in between I was a soldier. Once I got out, made my way to a military base and became found in action—it was hard to trust anyone. My commanders had the same accents, before and after. They used the same acronyms." 

Steve examined the line of Bucky's jaw—he could only see Bucky in profile, the elegant swoop of his features. A picture was starting to form, even though he didn't yet have the details. 

"When you want to tell me the details, I will personally root out every rat bastard and leave them on your doorstep as prizes." His voice was calm, but the ferocity of his words made his very clear. "Even if you never want that, I will protect you with every ounce of blood in my body."

Bucky smiled, tilting his head toward Steve. There was something shadowed in his eyes. "Thanks, Cap." 

Steve's nostrils flared in irritation. He sat up, sheets pooling around his lap. "I'll also hold you when you want me too, and clean blood off your skin. Don't patronize me, Bucky—I'm here. You can do it on your own, you've proved that. But when you want help, I'll be here." 

Finally, Bucky turned to face Steve. Steve met his gaze steadily, unshaken. He wasn't sure he contours of what they were to one another, but he knew one thing very clearly—he wanted Bucky, and he cared. Even if everything fell apart, that would keep on going. It felt like a living thing growing in his chest—a mirror to the baby in Bucky, equally inexorable. 

Bucky closed the gap between them in two steps, leaning down. His palm cupped the side of Steve's cheek and stroked his thumb across Steve's bottom lip. His own lips settled a breath from Steve's ear. "I've got one secret for you. I know all that—and it scares me." 

Without thought, Steve reached up and sunk into Bucky's hair, gently moving his head so that they were making eye contact. Steve gave up on the idea of projecting anything in particular or making any particular point. 

"I've got a secret for you, too," Steve whispered back. "You can't get rid of me." 

Bucky's fingernails scraped Steve's temple as he shifted his hand to grab Steve's chin, jerking his face up to position him for a kiss. It was ferocious, hot and with the whirlwind energy of a hurricane. It was over before Steve understood what was happening, though his body had surged forward on its own. 

"I love you," Bucky said, and Steve believed him this time. "Take me out for dinner." 

"Eight," Steve said, breathless, and Bucky retreated to the bathroom without a look.

* * *

Steve had to get out of the apartment. He was vibrating with intensity, overwhelmed with the realization that Bucky was just feet away. Even something simple as making smoothies was impossible—he nearly dropped the full blender when Bucky came into the kitchen, resting his hand briefly in the small of Steve's back. 

"I think I have to go punch things," Steve said. 

"Bags, I hope," Bucky said, but he seemed pleased with himself. He rescued the smoothies from Steve and carefully poured them both out—Steve's, he put in a travel glass. That was as good as permission. 

"Whatever's available," Steve said. "Hopefully Tony doesn't get in my way." 

Bucky rolled his eyes, pushing Steve's drink into his chest. Steve held it with both of his hands, capturing Bucky's hand in the process. 

"Goodbye kiss? For luck." 

The smile on Bucky's face made Steve's heart flutter, and he pushed his luck. Leaning in, he kissed the corner of Bucky's lips, right where they folded together. He lingered, until with a huff of frustration, Bucky tilted his head and finished the kiss. It didn't tower with the intensity that their last kiss had, but it held so many different types of promise, just as much as their hands intertwined and the banal consideration of the smoothie between them. 

After a moment, Steve opened his eyes. "I'll text you the restaurant." 

"It better be that noodle place," Bucky said. 

"Well then." He leaned in, giving Bucky another brief kiss. "I'll see you there."

* * *

Steve decided to run to the Tower—that was where all the equipment he could really beat up was, and that Chinese place wasn't far from the tower there. He could work out, and find some paperwork to do, and he had a change of clothes in the tower—his phone rang five minutes away from Tony's building, and he already felt as giddy as a schoolkid, excited to hear Bucky's voice again, even though it had only been a few hours. 

"Steve." It was Sam, sounding grim. "We need you at the tower as soon as possible." 

His heart sank. There was part of him that wanted to say no—that he had plans, and that he wasn't sure he could deal with the idea of having to cancel them. But that tone in Sam's voice was unmistakable. 

"Wilco," Steve said. He couldn't conceal his irritation, but Sam didn't ask—that was another indication that this was real. 

He wasn't worried that Bucky would object—Bucky understood the demands of duty, more than most. He just didn't want to leave him, not even for the space of a mission, in a visceral, impossible way. 

The call with Bucky was a cruel echo of Steve's last phone call. 

"Steve!" Bucky said, cheerful. 

"I think we're going to have to delay those noodles," Steve said. His voice was unavoidably serious. 

Bucky, when he spoke again, had taken up some of that gravity in his tone. There was no resentment there. "There will be another time. Stay safe." 

Steve squeezed his eyes shut for a long moment. He was incredibly durable—he could take any amount of punishment. But he and Peggy, they'd been on the precipice of something, on something like acknowledgment—and then he'd slept for seventy years. Steve wanted to go to noodles with Bucky, but if it didn't end up happening—if something happened, well. Maybe it was morbid, but he had to: 

"I love you, Bucky." 

And then he hung up, sticking his phone in his pocket. 

It rang, and rang, and rang another time. When Steve arrived at the tower, the very first security guard snagged him. He looked sheepish when he said. 

"Ms. Romanov said you must call your husband immediately." 

Steve's cheeks went red, even though he tried to pull a type of haughty self-confidence over his posture. "Thank you." 

"Uh. She wants me to watch you dial the number." 

He cursed, but part of him relaxed—if Nat could have any frivolity like this, it probably wasn't an apocalyptic scenario. He showily pulled out his phone, scrolled to Bucky's contact, and raised both his eyebrows at the guard. He beat a fast retreat the moment Steve pushed call. 

"Fuck you, Steve Rogers," Bucky said, after half of a ring. "You don't get to do that." 

"I was just—"

"No. You don't get to say that like you're on your way to die. What's this mission?" 

"I don't even know, I just wanted to make sure I said it." Steve was smiling into a potted plant in the corner—the tension and disappointment that had built up dissipating under the force of Bucky's unfiltered irritation. "I mean it. I love you. I'll say it any number of times again. It's not like its the apocalypse or anything." 

"Damn right," Bucky said. He sounded calmer, seeming to believe Steve's explanation. Steve heard the deep breath on the other end of the line. "Okay. I love you too. Come back, you hear? You owe me noodles." 

"I promise," Steve said, beaming. It was with a light heart that he went up the elevator to whatever mission ruined his plans. In the scheme of things, it was irrelevant. They'd have a lot of time to get noodles.

* * *

Steve got separated from the rest of the team. The mission was chaos—the intelligence had suggested a small force, outside of the city. It was disconcerting to have any outright military power that close to NYC, but they shouldn't have had a problem. It was quickly apparent that the intelligence was wrong. 

Their communications snuffed out like candles at just the point they were separated by carefully organized flanking forces. Steve found himself in a corner, twenty well-armed men coming for him—and they knew how he fought. 

The thing that got him was a familiar pair of brown eyes, now smiling over an unmasked face. 

"Surprise!" Rumlow said, and shot him in the gut. The syringe depressed in his neck seconds later; between the two, he was out.

* * *

Steve was glad he said it. He held onto that thought—there was hope, in the fact that he had someone who loved him waiting for him, that they had a future they both were looking clear-eyed into. He wanted to meet Bucky's child. He wanted to figure out what marriage was going to look like a year into the future and he wanted to map every inch of Bucky's body. There was so much he had to do—it was impossible that he die now. 

But if he did, he couldn't help but think, at least Bucky would know. At least _Steve_ knew that this life had that potential in it—there was something beautiful in that. 

They had strapped him down, and all his strength couldn't budge the thick layers of steel. He saw a flash of an orange plastic—the syringe cover, _Bucky_ , he didn't want—blackness, again.

* * *

The next moment of consciousness, he tried to seem like he was sleeping. He kept his breathing even and muscles lax. If they wanted him asleep, he could make it seem like—

"Captain Rogers," a smooth voice said. Familiar, enough that he couldn't stop his eyes from snapping open. The Secretary of State was standing there, a disconcerting figure in a nice suit, surrounded by concrete walls so thick that condensation dripped down them. A modern dungeon. 

"Secretary Pierce," Steve said. The part of him that wanted to ask if he was being rescued knew it was quite the reverse. This was the puzzle piece—the conspiracy he had thought had uncovered so many years ago, finally coming to light. There would be something satisfying about it, but he was only sad. He wanted to see Bucky again; if Pierce was showing his face, that must be vanishingly unlikely. 

Pierce had his hands deep in his pockets, distorting the line of his suit. "Don't you have questions for me? Demands? Rousing speeches?" 

Steve grunted. He didn't like to play these games, especially not with Pierce—he had found the man unsettling even before he knew the depths. Perhaps he should stall for time, but he wasn't sure he had the ability to dissemble left in him. He was thirsty enough that it must have been days. 

"Your husband was a lot chattier than this. He must talk your ear off at home."

He didn't let any surprise on his face, though he felt it. Bucky was a lot of things, but talkative wasn't one of them—he made Steve feel loud by comparison, some days. He must have been so different, before these people got him. Steve's heart broke for the man he had been, and felt a swell of love for the man he knew. 

"You clearly have something you want to say," he said, finally. Despite his pose of nonchalance, he had a lot of questions. Was he bait? Would Bucky fall into the trap? He knows if it had been the reverse, he would come charging in. He promised as much. And the rest of his team—were they alive? 

"Do you know where the rest of your team is, Captain?" Pierce said. He played with something in his pocket, a metal device spinning around underneath the fabric. Steve didn't give him the pleasure of a guess. After a moment, Pierce kept speaking. "I'll show." 

A screen clicked on behind him—it was poor quality, inset into the wall. The only purpose something like this—to torture your prisoners with some reality they could not touch. What Steve saw as a funeral, people all in black. There was a somber picture of him in front of a coffin, and Natasha was walking up to pay her respects—she was wearing a veil, and no makeup, a simple dress. There was nothing joyous about her outfit, even though this is the type of sartorial challenge she'd take to with relish. Both Tony and Sam behind her matched, in their black suits. 

His heart pounding, he searched the crowd, looking for Bucky—but Pierce clicked it off too quickly, before he could either confirm that Bucky was there or feel comfortable that he wasn't. 

"The fun part is, it's not even a closed casket." Pierce looked very pleased with himself and clicked the screen on again. Now, the image was a bank of what looked like upright metal coffins, with a window in each one. Every one of them had his face, eyes closed and face serene. Steve didn't think he looked that peaceful even asleep. Perhaps in death—and these bodies didn't look alive. 

"We never had much success cloning you," he said. "This was the best we could do, on that front. It's really quite tragic. Sometimes I daydream where HYDRA would have been, if you had crashed somewhere we could find you back in the forties. The amount of research and influence we could have had, if we had a super soldier from the beginning." 

Steve's eyes snapped away from his own death mask, back to Pierce's face. His smile had a note of impish pleasure, even if he bemoaned their inability to torture him for decades. "Do you want me to beat my chest?" Steve said, with a mildness he didn't feel. "Weep and moan for the lost decades of science?" 

Pierce laughed at him. "No, no. Honestly, I'm just gloating. We have the original in custody, and the dime store replica on the run. It won't be long before we have him, too—it's a lot to ask, to fight us all off on his own." 

As brutally as he tried to suppress his confusion, he couldn't conceal it entirely. 

"He didn't tell you?" Pierce asked, showily. "He has a version of your serum. When we had you back in our hands, you were very accommodating with fluids of all kinds—more than enough blood and semen to extract your genetic material and use it to attempt a version of your process. It was never as good as yours, but it was enough he could survive the procedure." 

It was hard for him to keep track of all the spiraling implications of this horror, all he different ways his and Bucky's lives intersected before they met. He imagined Bucky staring down a bank of his own lifeless face, and knowing that it was his DNA that facilitated his torture. Bucky didn't choose the pregnancy, and he didn't choose to have Steve's DNA running through his veins. It must mean something that he chose Steve anyway, but he wasn't sure what. 

Pierce checked his phone, eyebrows ticking up minutely. "Looks like I must run. I unfortunately missed your funeral, but I'm throwing a little soiree in your honor."

"You've not won anything," Steve snarled, unable to hold it in any longer. "You'll just have to kill me if you ever take me out of these chains." 

He surged up in a clash of metal, but Pierce didn't flinch. His eyes were cold. 

"You underestimate how much we can do with you on your back, Steve Rogers. You'll help us shape the next century. Raise us up to the stature we deserve, instead of grubbing around for scraps of data. I look forward to it." 

On his way out, he waved his hand in command—and Steve felt a prick on his carotid artery before the world went black again.

* * *

He didn't remember anything about the next few days, except for pain and the grogginess of drugs that never had a chance to leave his system. Light flashed and wavered in his eyes, with no distinguishing features between night or day. It felt near to an eternity, but maybe it was a couple hours. Maybe it was until the end of time. They kept him on the edge of complete dehydration and didn't feed him: it made he drugs work better, it kept him weak. 

Steve didn't know what they did to him—mostly, they took a lot of blood. The most common sight in his brief periods of lucidity was a red vial, slowly filling up. When he had the presence of mind to think, he thought of Bucky. He hoped he was free—maybe it was Steve's turn, to be on this table. Maybe there was something appropriate about that. 

When he emerged from the darkness to see Bucky's face, he first smiled—it would be nice to dream of something nice. And then, when he saw the solidly of the body hanging over him, his stomach dropped in terror. 

"No, no, no— Bucky. No—"

"Steve," he murmured, carefully checking Steve over for any debilitating wounds. Steve realized that the metal shackles around his wrists were gone, and he used the new freedom to reach for Bucky's face. He was wearing heavy night vision goggles, and his hair was pulled back. When Steve stumbled off the table and saw the full length of him, he was wearing nondescript black body armor—his heart stuttered when he saw the way it was straining to close over his stomach. It had not been intended for pregnancy—this was not the place for Bucky. 

"You have to get out of here," Steve insisted. "Pierce—"

Bucky's smile was without humor. "Is no longer a concern. It turns out he's much more able to give pain than take it." He held up the slender metal remote that Pierce had used, and Steve felt a rush of relief. 

"You're saving me," Steve said, dumb with relief. This, finally, shook some of the grimness out of Bucky's face. 

"I am," he said. He leaned in and kissed Steve's cheek, wrapping his arm around Steve's shoulders to haul him up. 

"Now come on," he said. "This place is rigged to blow.

* * *

Steve was near delirious, with pain and the remnants of the drugs. His head was pounding from dehydration, and his lips rasped together like he was going to draw his own blood. The world was swimming around him—the transition he'd undergone between captive and free was too quick, and none of this felt real. Only the heat against his back, and the sharp debris under his bare feet—that was real. It was hard to even believe Bucky's body; Bucky, in many ways, felt the most like a dream of anything. Except that dreams would have had to come from Steve, and Steve knew that Bucky was beyond anything Steve could have imagined.

"I couldn't have chosen you," Steve said, mumbling into the side of Bucky's face. Bucky was supporting him with his arm around Steve's waist, and Steve kept thinking that he should walk himself, let Bucky have more room—but every attempt just made them both stumble with Steve's lack of balance. 

Bucky was patient with him—he didn't tell him to stop trying. He just was there to support them both. "I hate to break it to you, Steve, but you did choose me. I filled out an application and everything." 

Steve waved it away, before pausing. He smiled, straining his cracked lips. The sharp burst of pain was worth it. "That was one of the things that I couldn't have guessed about. That you would have chosen me, that you would have been an option. I did choose you—but more than that, you _happened_ to me." 

He felt the curve of Bucky's belly press into his own. They were all wrapped up in each other, and Steve wanted to pull them even closer. It was only the roar of the base behind them, crackling with flame, that kept him moving at all. 

Bucky let himself be used as a support, as sturdy as a barrier wall. He'd work to be worthy of that, after everything, before the rest.

"Don't you worry," Bucky said, almost too quietly to be heard over the sounds of the building collapsing, almost to himself. "I'm going to keep happening to you." 

"I can't wait," Steve said—and even though it wasn't exactly the moment, he turned into Bucky for a kiss.

_fin_


End file.
